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BOWDOni  POETS: 


EDITED    BY 


EDWARD    P.  WESTON 


"  rioriferis  ut  apes  in  saltibus  omnia  libant, 
Omnia   nos  itidem  depuscimur  aurea  dicta." 


BRUNSWICK: 
PUBLISHED     BY     JOSEPH     GRIFFIN 

FEOM    HIS    PRESS. 

1857. 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcinive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/bowdoinpoetsOOwestricli 


PREFACE 


TO    THE    FIRST    EDITION, 


The  collection  of  this  little  volume  was  under- 
taken by  the  compiler,  to  occupy  the  leisure  of  a  few 
weeks  not  otherwise  appropriated.  The  design, 
though  we  believe  entirely  novel,  needs  but  a  word  of 
explanation.  It  is  a  Bowdoin  Book — the  united  of- 
fering of  her  Poets    at   the    shrine    of  the    Bowdoin 

Muse  ; and  presented  to  her  Alumni  as  a  memento 

of  their  cherished  Alma  Mater.  A  thing  of  local 
interest,  and  principally  intended  to  meet  the  partial 
eye  of  its  friends,  it  was  not  fashioned  exclusively  in 
reference  to  the  taste,  or  the  criticism,  of  the  literary 
Public.  Yet  in  allowing  it  to  pass  beyond  the  circle 
for  which  it  was  especially  intended,  we  must  plead 
guiUy  to  the  charge  of  believing  that  its  appearance 
abroad  will  be  respectable ; — a  vanity,  pardonable  per^ 
haps,  in  one  so  little  removed  from  college  life,  as  not 
to  have  lost  in  the  levelling  of  the  great  world,  the 
student's   peculiar   regard   for  his    own    institution^ 


6  PREFACE. 

We  mean,  however,  to  claim  for  it  no  excellence  su- 
perior to  that  which  any  similar  book  might  possess, 
had  one  the  idle  curiosity  to  compile  it. 

The  selection  of  the  materials  composing  the  vol- 
ume, has  been  attended  with  many  difficulties.  Not 
the  least  of  these,  was  that  of  deciding  how  far  a 
rigid  criticism  should  yield  to  a  regard  for  the  interest, 
which  a  larger  number  of  contributors  would  give  to 
the  book,  as  intended  for  Bowdoin  readers.  Again, 
the  little  time  allowed  us  after  the  project  was  con- 
ceived, before  it  was  necessary  to  publish  the  book — 
if  published  at  all — obliged  us  to  commence  the  print- 
ing before  all  the  materials  were  collected.  For  this 
reason,  the  arrangement  of  the  poems  will  be  found 
wholly  miscellaneous, — no  regard  having  been  paid  to 
subject  or  style,  or  priority  of  age  in  the  writers,  far- 
ther than,  where  it  was  convenient,  to  mingle  "  the 

green  leaves  with  the  dry." Owing  to  the   late 

date  of  many  of  the  communications,  a  very  dispro- 
portionate selection  has  been  made  from  the  different 
contributors. — It  will  be  noticed  that  we  have  drawn 
largely  upon  the  published  articles  of  some  of  our 
writers.  If  the  peculiar  excellence  of  any  pieces  has 
made  them  familiar  to  the  public  eye,  it  is  not  perhaps 
to  our  discredit,  that  we  can  claim  them  as  our  off- 
spring. 


PREFACE.  7 

Should  individuals  look  in  vain  for  names  they 
expected  to  find  in  the  volume,  we  have  only  to  assure 
them  of  our  intention  to  do  impartial  justice.  "We 
have  spared  no  pains  to  ascertain  the  address  of  all 
who  are  entitled  to  a  representation  upon  its  pages, 
but  fear  that  some  have  been  overlooked.  From  a 
large  number  also  to  whom  our  Circular  was  sent,  no 
answer  has  been  received ;  leaving  us  to  suppose  that 
the  communication,  upon  one  side  or  the  other,  mis- 
carried. Some  articles  furnished,  have  been  necessa- 
rily excluded ;  and  in  others,  their  authors  will  no- 
tice a  few  slight  alterations. 

Several  graduates,  remembered  by  their  college 
contemporaries  as  "  Bowdoin  Poets,"  have  very  mod- 
estly declined  occupying  the  pages  offered  them. 
Among  these,  are  Charles  S.  Daveis  and  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne,  Esquires;  the  Hon.  Messrs.  Bellamy 
Storer,  Robert  P.  Dunlap,  George  Evans  and  S.  S. 
Prentiss ;  and  the  Rev.  Messrs.  Thomas  T.  Stone, 
Calvin  E.  Stowe,  George  B.  Cheever  and  Horatio 
Southgate ;  whose  failure  to  be  represented  here  is 
matter  of  especial  regret. 

It  will  be  perceived  from  the  names  starred  in 
the  following  pages,  that  several  of  the  writers  have 
already  passed  to  their  immortality. 

'  Quos  dei  amant,  immature  moriuntur.' 


8  PREFACE. 

They  have  erected  their  own  monuments ;  not  all  of 
them  perhaps  in  the  public  avenue,  where  the  unfeel- 
ing wonder  and  pass  on  ;  but  each  in  his  own  green 
retreat,  frequented  by  the  loved  and  the  left,  and  hal- 
lowed by  their  tears. 

We  had  intended  to  present  a  Proem,  wherein 
the  Spirits  of  Bowdoin, 

"  Black  spirits  and  white,  blue  spirits  and  gray," — 

assembled  from  all  her  borders — 

From  old  Bungo-niingo-nock, 
And  where  merry  Quobomock 

Floweth  free, — 
From  the  plains  and  from  the  highlands^ 
And  the  wave-embosomed  islands 

Of  the  sea — 

should  have  whispered  to  her  Poets  as  of  old,  and 
borne  them  tidings  of  their  once  familiar  haunts, 

"Where  the  giant  night- wind  marches 
Through  the  pines'  cathedral  arches 
Solemnly — 

and  where  in  time  past, 

As  beneath  the  stars  they  wended, 
Burning  thoughts  in  troops  descended 
From  on  high. 


PREFACE.  9 

But,  reminded  by  our  Publisher  that  we  have  al- 
ready transgressed  the  stipulated  limits,  we  are 
obliged  to  abandon  the  design ;  leaving  the  hallowed 
memories  of  Bowdoin  and  Pejepscot  to  be  suggested 
by  the  pages  that  follow. 

From  this  little  labor  of  alternate  pleasure  and 
perplexity,  we  turn  to  severer  duties  ;  and  have  now 
only  to  ask  that  our  brethren  will  accept,  at  our 
hands,  this  humble  eifort  to  afford  them  an  hour's  en- 
tertainment. Should  they  call  for  a  periodical  offer- 
ing of  like  nature,  may  the  labor  of  its  preparation 
fall  into  abler  hands. 

E.  P.  W. 

Brunswick,  August,  1840. 


PREFACE 


TO   THE    SECOND    EDITION 


This  edition  of  the  Bowdoin  Poets,  unexpected- 
ly called  for,  is  little  more  than  a  reprint  of  the  first. 
Some  changes  have  been  made  in  the  selections  from 
former  contributors,  and  a  few  pieces  have  been  ad- 
ded from  new  sources.  We  regret  our  inability,  in 
the  circumstances,  to  secure  more  contributions  from 
later  graduates.  The  new  view  of  the  Colleges,  how- 
ever, got  up  by  Mr.  Griffin  for  this  edition,  is  espe- 
cially theirs.  Earlier  graduates  will  look  in  vain  for 
certain  prominent  objects  of  interest,  intimately  asso- 
ciated with  their  recollections  of  Bowdoin.  The  old 
church,  the  wooden  chapel,  and  the  President's  man- 
sion,— are  not  there.  And  yet  we  rejoice  the  more, 
in  the  elegant  structures  that  have  replaced  them,  and 
in  the  general  evidence  of  improvement  so  happily 
shown  in  the  new  picture. 

E.  P.  W. 

GoRHAM;  March,  1849, 


CONTENTS. 


Footsteps  of  Angels    ...     H.  W.  Longfellow     ...  13 

Night  in  the  Woods  ....  Ephraim  Peabody  ....  16 

Autumn Isaac  IM'Lellan,  Jf .  .     .     .  18 

Life William  Cutter  ....  21 

The  Slave  in  the  Dismal  Swamp  H.  W.  Longfellow     ...  25 

The  Tell-Tale  Face     .     .     ,     William  Cutter  ....  29 

To  a  Sister B.  B.  Thatcher     ....  32 

The  Skater's  Song       .     .     .      Ephraim  Peabody  ...  35 

To  the  Last  Leaf     ....    Wm.  G.  Crosby    ....  37 

Hope,  Faith;  Charity  ...      B.  A.  G.  Fuller  ....  39 

Song  of  the  Wintry  Wind     .     Frederic  Mellen    ....  42 

Stanzas       Claude  L.  Hemans       .     .  46 

To  an  Infant Wm.  B.  Walter    ....  47 

An  Air-Chateau Nehemiah  Cleaveland       .  52 

Mental  Beauty       ....       Richard  H.  Vose  .     ...  55 

The  Withered  Flowers      .     .     Edmund  Flagg  ....  57 

The  Notes  of  the  Birds  .     .      Isaac  M'Lellan,  Jr.     .     .     .  59 

The  Haunted  Wood      .     .     .    Isaac  M'Lellan,  Jr.      .     .  63 

Andre C.  W.  Upham      ....  66 

Gathering  of  the  Covenanters     G.  F.  Magoun 69 

Music  and  Memory  .     .     .     .  N.  L.  Sawyer      ....  72 

The  Troubadour     ....      Frederic  Mellen     ....  76 

Weep  not  for  the  Dead  .     .     .  B.  B.  Thatcher    ....  78 

The  Mother  perishing       .     .      Seba  Smith 81 

The  Poet's  Mission    ....  The  Editor 83 

The  Rainbow C.  H.  Upton 85 

Excelsior H.  W.  Longfellow    ...  86 


12                                             CONTENTS. 

To  the  Author's  Wife       .     . 

Seba  Smith 

.  89 

The  Wabash 

.  J.  B.  L.  Soule      .     .     . 

.    92 

Lyric  Poetry 

William  Cutter  .     .     .     . 

95 

The  Infant  Samuel   .     .     . 

.   Ephraim  Peabody     .     . 

.     98 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean 

C.  H.  Brown      .     .     .    . 

100 

An  Extract 

.  Isaac  M'Lellan,  Jr.  .     . 

.  102 

Kev.  Robert  Wyman        .     . 

The  Editor     .-    .     .     .     . 

,     104 

Jacob's  Funeral     .... 

.  C.  W.  Upham  .... 

107 

The  Village  Blacksmith    . 

.    H.  W.  Longfellow  .     . 

.    109 

The  Dead 

,  Geo.  F.  Talbot      .     .     . 

112 

Oh  !   think  not  that  the  Dream  J.  JB.  L.  Soule    .     .     .    , 

>     116 

Sonnet 

,  H.  J.  Gardner       .     .     . 

.  118 

"What  would  ye  ask  ?   .    . 

.     Geo.  W.  Lamb  .    .     . 

.    119 

Sea-weed 

.    H.W.Longfellow    ,     . 

.  122 

'  I  would  not  live  alway'    . 

.    William  Cutter  .     .     . 

.    125 

The  Last  Request  .     .    .     , 

.     B.  B.  Thatcher    ... 

.  128 

He  doeth  all  things  well    . 

.   E.M.  Field 

.     130 

The  Little  Graves  .... 

Seba  Smith     .... 

.  133 

Fairy  Land 

.   Wm.  B.  Walter      .    .     . 

137 

Ogilvie 

.     Wm.  B.  Walter    .    .    , 

,  139 

A  Dirge 

.  Robert  Wyman      .     .     . 

142 

S^.  John  in  Exile     .     .     . 

.     Andrew  Dunning     .     . 

.  144 

The  First-born      .... 

.  The  Editor 

150 

Vespers 

.     Francis  Barbour      .    . 

.    154 

The  Demon  of  the  Sea  .     . 

.  Elijah  Kellogg,  Jr.     .     . 

156 

Spirit  Voices 

Geo.  W.  Lamb       .     .     . 

161 

To  my  Mother     .... 

.   The  Editor      .          .     . 

.  163 

"Love's  Blind"      .     .     . 

.     C.  H.  Porter 

167 

Venetian  Moonlight  .     .     . 

.  Frederic  Mellen  .     .     . 

,    168 

Death  of  Thatcher  .     .     . 

.    Isaac  M'Lellan,  Jr. 

.     171 

Notes 

.     175 

CONTENTS 


13 


"  Isle  of  the  Past"     .     .     .  Edwin  P.  Parker  ....  175 

The  Rain James  0.  Brown  .*    .     .     .  177 

Ode J.  B.  Southgate  ....  179 

Ode     .     .         .....  Edwin  P.  Parker  ....  181 


NOTE. 

Since  issuing- the  second  edition  of  this  work  in  1849,  the  publisher, 
by  solicitation,  has  procured  the  above  named  pieces  from  their  respective 
authors,  and  they  are  here  published,  with  one  exception,  for  the  first  time. 
We  regret  to  say,  that  promises  of  contributions  &om  several  other  grada> 
ates  have  not  yet  been  fulfilled. 

Jan.  1,  1857. 


14  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife. 

By  the  road-side  fell  and  perished, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

I'oldpd  iheir  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  w;ith  us  on  earth  no  more ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me. 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep. 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me. 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me. 
With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like. 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 


FOOTSTEPS     OF     ANGELS.  15 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 

Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 
Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 

Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

O,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside. 
If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died ! 


NIGHT  IN  THE  WOODS 


BY    EPHKAIM     PEABODY. 


"  Through  the  openings  in  the  leafy  vaults  looked  down  the 
stars  from  far  above  this  world."      Mary's  Journey. 


The  unfathomable  cope  of  heaven  ! 

The  deep  and  silent  sky ! 
Through  the  narrow  forest  opening, 
Looks  down  its  peaceful  eye. 
The  tranquil  stars  pass  o'er  me  one  by  one — 
The  silver  clouds  rise  up — float  o'er — are  gone. 

The  forest  pines  which  circle  round 

Like  dark  towers  at  my  side, 
But  show  the  depths  of  the  dim  vault, 
Where  the  holy  stars  abide. 
Unsounded  void  !  yet  deepening  whilst  1  gaze, 
Till  the  eye  swims,  that  through  thy  clear  deep  strays. 


NIGHT     IN     THE     WOODS.  17 

The  night  is  hushed  like  sleep ; — the  roar 

Of  the  great  wilderness  is  still ; 
The  breeze  is  sleeping  midst  its  leaves, 
The  brook  beneath  its  hill ; 
On  branch  and  leaf  and  in  their  gloomy  shade, 
The  silence  of  eternity  is  laid. 

The  moving  heavens ! — the  Spirit's  power 

In  glory  bids  them  roll ; 
The  music  of  the  many  spheres — 
*Tis  sounding  through  the  soul ! 
The  Vast !  the  Beautiful ! — in  mystery. 
Deep  in  the  soul's  abyss  unseen  they  lie. 

Sea — heavens — ye  settled  hills  that  lift 

Your  brows  into  the  blue, 
Like  altars  reared  to  God — the  soul 
Is  mightier  than  you, — 
Yea,  gives  you  all  your  glory — gives  the  light. 
Which  lifts  you  up  from  nothingness  and  night. 

Oh  God  !  who  breathed  into  the  soul 

A  "power  from  thine  own  power, 
Teach  me  to  know  the  uncounted  worth 

Of  this  celestial  dower  : 

Oh  may  I  ne'er  defile  with  earth  and  sense 

This  image  of  thine  own  Omnipotence, 
2* 


AUTUMN. 


Y    ISAAC    m'lELLAN,     JR. 


'  Round  Autumn's  mouldering  urn, 
Loud  mourns  the  chill  and  cheerless  gale, 
When  nightfall  shades  the  quiet  vale, 

And  stars  in  beauty  burn.' — Longfellow. 


Now  in  the  fading  woods,  the  Autumn  blast 
Chants  its  old  hymn, — a  melancholy  sound ! 

And  look !  the  yellow  leaves  are  dropping  fast, 
And  earth  looks  bleak  and  desolate  around. 

The  flowers  have  lost  their  glorious  scent  and  bloom, 
And  shiver  now  as  flies  the  tempest  by ; 

To  some  far  clime  hath  flown  the  wild  bird's  plume, 
To  greener  woods,  and  some  serener  sky. 


AUTUMN.  19 

The  reaper's  sheaf  hath  now  grown  white  and  thin ; 

The  bearded  wheat,  and  golden  ear  of  corn, 
The  jocund  husbandmen  have  gathered  in ; 

And  from  the  fields  the  seedy  hay  is  borne. 

The  orchards  all  have  showered  their  treasures  down, 
In  many  a  pile  of  crimson  and  of  gold ; 

There  will  be  wealth  of  sparkling  juice  to  crown 
The  foamy  glass  when  the  Year's  death  is  knolled. 

Still  are  these  barren-hills !  save  when  the  tree 
Falls  'neath  the  far-off  woodman's  measured  stroke; 

Or  w^hen  the  squirrel  chatters  noisily. 

Or  carrion  crow  screams  frmn  the  leafless  oak. 

Methinks  there's  something  sad  in  thy  decay, 
Oh  !  merry -hearted  Autumn  !  like  a  man 

Whose  head  is  in  his  prime  of  years  turned  gray, 
The  red  cheek  in  a  little  hour  made  wan  ! 

Poet !  doth  no  regret  o'ercast  thy  dream. 
To  see  the  good  old  Autumn  thus  depart  ? 

And  gloom  fast  darkening  Summer's  golden  gleam, 
E'en  as  afflictions  change  the  cheerful  heart. 


20  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

E'en  as  I  follow  to  his  lowly  bed, 

The  ashes  of  some  kind,  and  well-beloved  friend, 
So  with  a  saddened  eye  and  mournful  tread, 

I  see  thee.  Autumn  !  to  oblivion  tend. 

Yet  beautiful  are  thy  last  fleeting  days, 

When  glows  the  hectic  on  thy  dying  cheek ; 

When  leaves  are  red,  clouds  bright,  and  hangs  the 
haze 
In  many  a  colored  fold,  of  gaudy  streak. 

I  hear  the  voice  of  Autumn !  the  deep  dirge 
Hymned  plaintively  within  his  ruined  hall, 

Its  solemn  sound  comes  like  the  beating  surge, 
Or  thunder  of  the  distant  water-fall ! 


LIFE, 


A   BRIEF   HISTORY   IN   THREE   PARTS,  WITH   A    SEQUEL. 


T     WILLIAM     CUTTER 


PART  I.        LOVE. 


A  GLANCE — a  thought — a  blow — 
It  stings  him  to  the  core  ! 

A  question — will  it  lay  him  low  ? 
Or  will  time  heal  it  o'er  ? 

He  kindles  at  the  name, 
He  sits  and  thinks  apart — > 

Time  blows,  and  blows  it  to  a  flame^ 
It  burns  within  his  heart. 

He  loves  it,  though  it  burns, 

And  nurses  it  with  care, 
Feeding  the  blissful  pain,  by  turns. 

With  hope,  ^nd  with  despair. 


22 


BOWDOIN     POETS 


PART  II.         WOOING. 

Sonnets  and  serenades — 

Sighs,  glances,  toars,  and  vows — 
Gifts,  tokens,  souvenirs,  parades, 

And  courtesies,  and  bows. 

A  purpose  and  a  prayer — 

The  stars  in  the  sky ! 
He  wonders  how  even  hope  should  dare 

To  let  him  aim  so  high. 

Still  hope  allures  and  flatters, 

And  doubt  just  makes  him  bold — 

And  so,  with  passion  all  in  tatters, 
The  trembling  tale  is  told. 

Confessions,  vows,  and  blushes-— 

Soft  looks,  averled  eyes- 
Each  heart  into  the  other  rushes- 
Each  yields,  each  wins — a  prize  ! 


LIFE.  23 


PART   III.  M  A  R  R  T  A  a  E  . 

A  gathering  of  fond  friends — 

Brief,  solemn  words  and  prayer — 

A  trembling  to  the  fingers'  ends, 
As,  hand  in  hand,  they  swear  ! 

Sweet  cake,  sweet  wine,  sweet  kisses- 

And  so  the  deed  is  done  ; 
Now,  for  life's  woes  and  blisses, 

The  wedded  two  are  one  I 


And  down  the  shining  stream, 
They  launch  their  buoyant  skiff— 

Blest — if  they  may  but  trust  hope's  dream- 
But  ah  ! — truth  echoes — if  ! 


SEQUEL.        "IF." 

If  health  be  firm — if  friends  be  true- 
If  self  be  well  controlled — 

If  tastes  be  pure — if  wants  be  few, 
And  not  too  often  told, — 


24  BOWDOINPOETS. 

If  reason  always  rule  the  heart, 
And  passions  own  its  sway — 

If  love,  for  aye,  to  life  impart 
The  zest  it  gives  to-day, — 

If  Providence,  with  parent  care, 

Mete  out  the  varying  lot, 
While  meek  contentment  bows  to  share 

The  palace,  or  the  cot, — 

And  oh !  if  Faith  sublime  and  clear, 
The  spirit  upward  guide — 

Then  blest  indeed,  and  blest  fore'er. 
The  Bridegroom  and  the  Bride  ! 


THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP. 


BY   HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW. 


In  dark  fens  of  the  Dismal  Swamp 

The  hunted  Negro  lay  ; 
He  saw  the  fire  of  the  midnight  camp, 
And  heard  at  times  a  horse's  tramp, 

And  a  bloodhound's  distant  bay. 

Where  will-o'  -the-wisps  and  glowworms  shine, 

In  bulrush  and  in  brake  ; 
Where  waving  mosses  shroud  the  pine, 
And  the  cedar  grows,  and  the  poisonous  vine 

Is  spotted  like  the  snake  ; — 
3 


26  BOWDOINrOETS. 

Where  hardly  a  human  foot  could  pass, 

Or  a  human  heart  would  dare, — 
On  the  quaking  turf  of  the  green  morass 
He  crouched  in  the  rank  and  tangled  grass, 
Like  a  wild  beast  in  his  lair. 

A  poor  old  slave,  infirm  and  lame  ; — 

Great  scars  deformed  his  face  ; 
On  his  forehead  he  bore  the  brand  of  shame, 
And  the  rags,  that  hid  his  mangled  frame, 
Were  the  livery  of  disgrace. 

All  things  above  were  bright  and  fair  ; 

All  things  were  glad  and  free  ; 
Lithe  squirrels  darted  here  and  there, 
And  wild  birds  filled  the  echoing  air 

With  songs  of  Liberty  ! 

On  him  alone  was  the  doom  of  pain, 

From  the  morning  of  his  birth  ; 
On  him  alone  the  curse  of  Cain 
Fell,  like  a  flail  on  the  garnered  grain, 
And  struck  him  to  the  earth  ! 

He  saw  once  more  his  dark-eyed  queen 
Among  her  children  stand  ; 


THE    SLAVE    IN    THE    D  1  S  JI  A  L    SWAMP.         27 

They  clasped  his  neck,  they  kissed  his  cheeks, 

They  held  him  by  the  hand  !  — 
A  tear  burst  from  the  sleeper's  lids, 

And  fell  into  the  sand. 

And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 

Along  the  Niger's  bank  ; 
His  bridle-reins  were  golden  chains, 

And,  with  a  martial  clank. 
At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard  of  steel 

Smiting  his  stallion's  flank. 

Before  him,  like  a  blood-red  flag, 

The  bright  flamingoes  flew  ; 
From  morn  till  night  he  followed  their  flight, 

O'er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew, 
Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  Caflre  huts, 

And  the  ocean  rose  to  view. 

At  night  he  heard  the  lion  roar. 

And  the  hyaena  scream, 
And  the  river-horse,  as  he  crushed  the  reeds 

Beside  some  hidden  stream  ; 
And  it  passed,  like  a  glorious  roll  of  drums, 

Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream. 


28  BOWDOINPOETS. 

The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues, 

Shouted  of  liberty  ; 
And  the  Blast  of  the  Desert  cried  aloud, 

With  a  voice  so  wild  and  free. 
That  he  startled  in  his  sleep,  and  smiled 

At  their  tempestuous  glee. 

He  did  not  fear  the  driver's  whip. 

Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day  ; 
For  Death  had  illumined  the  Land  of  Sleep, 

And  his  lifeless  body  lay 
A  worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 

Had  broken  and  thrown  away  ! 


^W^(iM' 


THE  TELL-TALE  PACE 


;Y    WILLIAM    cutt: 


I  HATE  the  frigid  notions, 

Which  seem  to  count  it  sin, 
To  show  the  kind  emotions 

True  kindness  works  within  ; 
Those  manners  cold  and  guarded 

With  words  dealt  out  hy  rule, 
Pronounced  just  as  mamma  did, 

Or  Madame  F ,  at  school. 

I  wonder  how  the  ladies, 

Dear  angels  that  they  are  ! 
Can  live  where  so  much  shade  is 

Their  loveliness  to  mar  ! 
Were  they  fairer  than  the  graces, 

And  wiser  than  the  light. 
Such  cold,  such  moonlight  faces, 

Would  put  young  love  to  flight. 

3* 


30 


BO  WDOIN     POETS. 

I  love  the  playful  fancies 

Of  an  unsuspecting  heart, 
That  speak  in  songs  and  glances, 

Unchecked  by  rules  of  art  ; 
I  love  the  face,  that  speaketh 

Of  all  that's  in  the  mind  ; 
The  brow,  the  eye,  that  taketh 

Its  hue  from  what's  behind. 

These  are  the  voice  of  nature, 

The  language  of  the  soul  ; 
Words  change,  but  o'er  the  feature, 

Guile  may  not  have  control  : 
The  tongue  may  tell  of  feelings, 

Which  may  be — or  may  not ; 
But  the  eye  hath  sure  revealings 

Of  the  deeply  hidden  thought. 

I  love  that  quick  expression, 

Which  flashes  the  full  eye, 
When  truth  would  make  confession, 

While  modesty  would  lie  ; 
Those  warm,  those  heavenly  blushes, 

That  crimson  brow  and  cheek, 
When  feeling's  fountain  gushes 

With  thoughts  it  dares  not  speak. 


THE     TELL-TAl'e     FACE.  31 

Those  shades  that  come  unbidden 

From  every  passing  cloud, 
With  tales  of  care  deep  hidden 

'Neath  merry  looks  and  proud  ; 
The  sudden  gleam  of  pleasure 

From  brow  and  eye  and  lip, 
That  tells  the  heart  hath  treasures 

It  scarce  knows  how  to  keep. 

These,  these  are  voices  given, 

For  soul  to  speak  with  soul, — 
As  true  to  truth  and  heaven, 

As  the  needle  to  the  pole. 
I  bow  to  wit  and  beauty, 

I  almost  worship  grace, — 
But  I  owe  especial  duty 

To  an  honest  tell-tale  face. 


TO  A  SISTER 


ABOUT   TO    EMBARK    ON    A   MISSIONARY   ENTERPRISE. 


Y   B.   B.    THATCHER. 


O  SISTER  !  sister !  hath  the  memory 
Of  other  years  no  power  upon  thy  soul, 
That  thus,  with  tearless  eye,  thou  leavest  me — 
And  an  unfaltering  voice — to  come  no  more  ? 
Hast  thou  forgot,  friend  of  my  better  days, 
Hast  thou  forgot  the  early,  innocent  joys 
Of  our  remotest  childhood  ;  when  our  lives 
Were  linked  in  one,  and  our  young  hearts  bloomed 

out 
Like  violet  bells  upon  the  self-same  stem, 
Pouring  the  dewy  odors  of  lifers  spring 
Into  each  other's  bosom — all  the  bright 
And  sorrowless  thoughts  of  a  confiding  love, 
And  intermingled  vows,  and  blossoming  hopes 
Of  future  good,  and  infant  dreams  of  bliss, 


TOASISTER.  33 

Budding  and  breathing  sunnily  about  them, 
As  crimson-spotted  cups,  in  spring  time,  hang 
On  all  the  delicate  fibres  of  the  vine  ? 

And  where,  O,  where  are  the  unnumbered  vows 
We  made,  my  sister,  at  the  twilight  fall, 
A  thousand  times,  and  the  still  starry  hours 
Of  the  dew-glistening  eve — in  many  a  walk 
By  the  green  borders  of  our  native  stream, 
And  in  the  chequered  shade  of  these  old  oaks — 
The  moonlight  silvering  o'er  each  mossy  trunk, 
And  every  bough,  as  an  Eolian  harp. 
Full  of  the  solemn  chant  of  the  low  breeze  ? 
Thou  hast  forgotten  this — and  standest  here, 
Thy  hand  in  mine,  and  hearest,  even  now, 
The  rustling  wood,  the  stir  of  falling  leaves. 
And — hark  ! — the  far  off  murmur  of  the  brook  ! 

Nay,  do  not  weep,  my  sister  ! — do  not  speak — 
Now  know  I,  by  the  tone,  and  by  the  eye 
Of  tenderness,  with  many  tears  bedimmed, 
Thou  hast  remembered  all.     Thou  measurest  well 
The  work  that  is  before  thee,  and  the  joys 
That  are  behind.     Now,  be  the  past  forgot — 
The  youthful  love,  the  hearth-light  and  the  home, 
Song,  dance,  and  story,  and  the  vows — the  vows 
That  we  change  not,  and  part  not  unto  death — 


34  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Yea,  all  the  spirits  of  departed  bliss, 

That  even  now,  like  spirits  of  the  dead, 

Seen  dimly  in  the  living  mourner's  dreams, 

And  trilling,  ever  and  anon,  the  notes 

Long  loved  of  old — 0,  hear  them,  heed  them  not. 

Press  on  !  for,  like  the  fairies  of  the  tale. 

That  mocked,  unseen,  the  tempted  traveler, 

With  power  alone  o'er  those  who  gave  them  ear, 

They  would  but  turn  thee  from  thy  high  resolve. 

Then  look  not  back  !  O,  triumph  in  the  strength 

Of  an  exalted  purpose  !  Eagle-like, 

Press  sunward  on.     Thou  shalt  not  be  alone. 

Have  but  an  eye  on  God,  as  surely  God 

Will  have  an  eye  on  thee — ^press  on  !  press  on  I 


THE  SKATER'S  SONG 


BY     EPHRAIM    PEABODY. 


Away  !  away  ! — our  fires  stream  bright 

Along  the  frozen  river, 
And  their  arrowy  sparkles  of  brilliant  light 

On  the  forest  branches  quiver. 
Away,  away,  for  the  stars  are  forth, 

And  on  the  pure  snows  of  the  valley. 
In  a  giddy  trance  the  moonbeams  dance — 

Come  let  us  our  comrades  rally. 

Away,  away,  o'er  the  sheeted  ice. 

Away,  away,  we  go  ; 
On  our  steel  bound  feet  we  move  as  fleet 

As  deer  o'er  the  Lapland  snow. 
What  though  the  sharp  north  winds  are  out 

The  skater  heeds  them  not ; 
Midst  the  laugh  and  the  shout  of  the  joyous  rout 

Gray  winter  is  forgot. 


36  BOWDOINPOETS. 

'T  is  a  pleasant  sight,  the  joyous  throng 

In  the  light  of  the  reddening  flame, 
While  with  many  a  wheel  on  the  ringing  steel 

They  wage  the"r  riotous  game ; 
And  though  the  night-air  cutteth  keen, 

And  ihe  white  moon  shineth  coldly, 
Their  homes  I  ween,  on  the  hills  have  been, 

They  should  breast  the  strong  blast  boldly. 

Let  others  choose  more  gentle  sports, 

By  the  side  of  the  winter's  hearth, 
Or  at  the  ball  or  the  festival. 

Seek  for  their  share  of  mirth  ; 
But  as  for  me,  away,  away. 

Where  the  merry  skaters  be. 
Where  the  fresh  wind  blows  and  the  smooth 
ice  glows, — 

There  is  the  place  for  me. 


TO  THE  LAST  LEAP 


BY     WILLIAM      (J.    CROSBY. 


Lone  trembling  one  ! 
Last  of  a  summer  race,  withered  and  sear, 
And  shivering — wherefore  art  thou  lingering  here  ? 

Thy  work  is  done. 

Thou  hast  seen  all 
The  summer  flowers  reposing  in  their  tomb, 
And  the  green  leaves  that  knew  thee  in  their  bloom, 

Wither  and  fall ! 

The  voice  of  Spring, 
Which  called  thee  into  being,  ne'er  again 
Will  greet  thee — nor  the  gentle  Summer  rain 

New  verdure  bring. 


38  BOWDOI  N     POETS. 

The  Zephyr's  breath 
No  more  will  wake  for  thee  its  melody — 
But  the  lone  sighing  of  the  blast  shall  be 

Thy  hymn  of  death. 

Yet  a  few  days, 
A  few  faint  struggles  with  the  autumn  storm, 
And  the  strained  eye  to  catch  thy  quivering  form, 

In  vain  may  gaze. 

Pale  autumn  leaf! 
Thou  art  an  emblem  of  mortality. 
The  broken  heart,  once  young  and  fresh  like  thee, 

Withered  by  grief, — 

Whose  hopes  are  fled. 
Whose  loved  ones  all  have  drooped  and  died  away, 
Still  clings  to  life — and  lingering,  loves  to  stay 

Above  the  dead  ! 

But  list — even  now, 
1  hear  the  gathering  of  the  wintry  blast  ; 
It  comes — thy  frail  form  trembles — it  is  past  ! 

And  so  art  thou  ! 


HOPE,  FAITH,  CHARITY 


BY    BENJAMIN    A.    O.    fULLE! 


And  now  abideth  faith,  hope,  charity,  these  three ;  but 
the  greatest  of  these  is  charity. "  1  Cor.  13 :   13. 


Have  Hope  ! — it  is  the  brightest  star 

That  lights  life's  pathway  down. 
A  richer,  purer  gem  than  decks 

An  Eastern  monarch's  crown. 
The  Midas  that  may  turn  to  joy 

The  grief-fount  of  the  soul ; 
That  points  the  prize,  and  bids  thee  press 

With  fervor  to  the  goal. 


40  BOWDOINPOETS. 

Have  Hope  ! — as  the  tossed  mariner, 

Upon  the  wild  waste  driven, 
With  rapture  hails  the  Polar  star, 

His  guiding  light  in  heaven, — 
So  Hope  shall  gladden  thee,  and  guide 

Along  life's  stormy  road, 
And  as  a  sacred  beacon  stand. 

To  point  thee  to  thy  God. 

Have  Faith  ! — the  substance  of  things  hoped, 

Of  things  not  seen  the  sign  ; 
That  nerves  the  arm  with  God-like  might. 

The  soul  with  strength  divine. 
Have  Faith  ! — her  rapid  foot  shall  bring 

Thee  conquering  to  the  goal, 
Her  glowing  hand  with  honors  wreathe 

A  chaplet  for  thy  soul. 

Have  Faith  ! — and  though  around  thy  bark 

The  tempest  surges  roar  ; 
At  her  stern  voice  the  storm  shall  rest, 

The  billows  rage  no  more. 
Hope  bids  the  soul  to  soar  on  high, 

But  yet  no  wing  supplies; 
She  marks  the  w^ay, — but  Faith  shall  bear  _ 

The  spirit  to  the  skies. 


HOPE,    FAITH,    CHARITY.  41 

Have  Charity  ! — for  though  thou'st  faith 

To  make  the  hills  remove. 
Thou  nothing  art,  if  wanting  this, — 

The  Charity  of  love. 
And  though  an  angel's  tongue  were  thine, 

Whose  voice  none  might  surpass, 
If  Charity  inspire  thee  not, 

Thou  art  '  as  sounding  brass.' 

Have  Charity  !  that  suffers  long, 

Is  kind,  and  thinks  no  ill ; 
That  grieve th  for  a  brother's  fault, 

Yet  loves  that  brother  still. 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity  ! — of  these 

The  last  is  greatest,  best. 
'Tis  Heaven  itself  come  down  to  dwell 

Within  the  human  breast. 


i* 


SONG  OF  THE  WINTRY  WIND. 


BY    FREDERIC    M  ELLEN. 


■Away  ! 


We  have  outstaid  the  hour — mount  we  our  clouds  ! 

Manfred. 

"^  Adieu  !  adieu  !  '  thus  the  storm  spirit  sang, 

'  Adieu  to  the  southern  sky  ; ' 
And  the  wintry  wind  that  round  him  rang, 

Caught  up  the  unearthly  minstrelsy. 
'  Adieu  !  adieu  !  to  its  flood's  bright  gleams, 
Its  waving  woodlands,  its  thousand  streams. ' 

^Oflf!  off!  '  said  the  spirit ;  like  the  whirlwind's  rush 

His  snow-wreathed  car  was  gone  ; 
And  their  cold  white  breath  came  down  the  night. 

As  his  startled  steeds  sped  on. 
Yet  the  night  wind's  dirge  o'er  the  changing  year, 
Fell  slowly  and  sadly  upon  the  ear. 


SONG     OF     THE     WINTRY    WIND.  43 

'Twas  the  song  of  woe, — of  that  wintry  wind, 

As  the  laughing  streams  ran  by, 
And  lingered  around  the  budding  trees, 

Once  clothed  in  its  own  chaste  livery. 
Its  tones  were  sad,  as  it  sunk  its  wing, 
And  this  was  its  simple  offering  : 

Farewell !  to  the  sun-bright  South  ; 

For  the  Summer  is  hastening  on  ; 
And  the  Spring  flowers  bright  in  their  fragrant  youth, 

Mourn  not  for  the  Winter  gone. 

*  But  when  days  have  passed,  and  I  come  again, 

Their  forms  shall  have  died  away  ; 
And  mine  must  it  be  their  cold  shroud  to  twine, 
From  the  snow  curls  that  o'er  them  lay. 

*  Farewell  !  to  the  sun-bright  South  : 

To  its  midnight  dance  and  its  song  ; 
For  each  heart  is  out  for  the  Summer  breeze, 
As  it  sports  in  its  mirth  along. 

*  And  the  student  hath  lifted  his  pallid  brow, 

To  list  to  its  soothing  strain  ; 
But  oft  shall  they  sigh  in  the  parching  heat, 
For  the  wintry  ivind  again. 


44  BOWDOINPOETS. 

*  Farewell  !  to  the  sun-bright  South  ; 

To  the  chime  of  its  deep,  deep  sea  ; 
To  its  leaping  streams,  its  solemn  woods, 
For  they  all  have  a  voice  for  me. 

•  Farewell  !  to  its  cheerful,  its  ancient  halls, 

Where  oft  in  the  days  of  old, 
When  the  waning  embers  burnt  low  and  dim, 
And  dark  strange  stories  were  told  ; 

i  My  hollow  moans  at  the  casement  bars, 
Stole  in  like  a  sound  of  dread ; 

i^nd  the  startled  ear  in  its  lonely  sigh, 
Heard  the  voice  of  the  sheeted  dead. 

'But  the  days  are  passed — the  hearth  is  dim, 
And  the  evening  tale  is  done ; 

'Mid  the  green-wood  now  is  the  choral  hymn, 
As  it  smiles  in  the  setting  sun. 

Farewell  to  the  land  of  the  South  ; 

My  pathway  is  far  o'er  the  deep, 
'Where  the  boom  of  the  rolling  surge  is  heard, 
And  the  bones  of  the  shipwrecked  sleep. 


SONG     OF     THE     WINTRY     WIND.  45 

'  I  go  to  the  land  of  mist  and  storm, 

Where  the  iceberg  looms  o'er  the  swell, 

Afar  from  the  sunlit  mountains  and  streams ; 
Sweet  land  of  the  South  !  farewell ! ' 

The  song  had  ceased  ;  and  the  Summer  breeze, 

Came  whispering  up  the  glen ; 
And  the  green  leaves  danced  on  the  forest-trees. 

As  they  welcomed  its  breath  again. 
And  the  cold  rocks  slept  in  the  moonlight  wan, 
But  the  wintry  wind  and  its  song  were  gone. 


STANZAS 


ON     RECOVERY     FROM     ILLNESS. 


BY   CLAUDE    L.    HEMANS, 


How  sweet  the  rest  kind  nature  brings. 
As  now  she  bids  my  sorrow  cease, 

And  comes  with  healing  on  her  wings 
To  ofive  this  achinfr  brow  release. 


•«3 


This  kindly  air  so  sweet  and  mild, 
That  greets  me  like  affection's  voice, 

She  sends  to  soothe  her  suffering  child, 
And  make  my  drooping  heart  rejoice. 

Hope  with  unruffled  plumes  once  more 
Broods  buoyant  on  my  tranquil  breast, 

As  when  the  raging  storm  is  o'er 

Some  light  bird  floats  on  waves  at  rest. 

Thanks,  gentle  friends,  whose  tender  care 
Has  poured  these  blessings  on  my  head, 

And  o'er  the  gloom  of  dark  despair 
The  rays  of  warm  affection  shed. 


TO  AN  INFANT 


ON     THE     DAY     OF      ITS     BIRTH, 


T    WILLIAM    B.    WALTER.^ 


"  Blest  who  in  the  cradle  die  ! 
Nought  they  knew — oh  ! — envied  bliss- 
Save  a  mother's  soothing  smile^ 
Save  a  mother's  tender  kiss." 


And  thou  art  here,  sweet  Boy,  among 
The  crowds  that  come  this  world  to  throng ! 
The  loveliest  dream  of  waking  life  ! 
Hope  of  the  bosom's  secret  strife  ! 
Emblem  of  all  the  heart  can  love  ! 
Vision  of  all  that's  bright  above  ! 
Pledge,  promise  of  remember'd  years  ! 
Seal  of  pure  souls,  yet  bought  with  tears  ! 


48  BOWD  OIN     POETS. 

Hail !  Child  of  Love  ! — I  linger  yet 
Around  thy  couch,  where  slumber  sweet 
Hangs  on  thine  eyelids'  living  shroud ; 
And  thoughts  and  dreamings,  thickly  crowd 
Upon  the  mind,  like  gleams  of  light 
Which  sweep  along  the  darksome  night, 
Lurid  and  strange,  all  fearful  sent 
In  flashings  o'er  the  firmament ! 

Oh  !  wake  not  from  that  tranquil  sleep  ! 
Too  soon  'twill  break,  and  thou  shalt  weep, 
Such  is  thy  destiny  and  doom, 
O'er  this  long  past  and  long  to  come ; 
Earth's  mockery,  guilt,  and  nameless  wo  ; 
The  pangs  which  thou  canst  only  know ; 
All  crowded  in  a  little  span, 
The  being  of  the  creature  Man  ! 

Ah !  little  deemest  thou  my  child. 
The  way  of  life  is  dark  and  wild ; 
Its  sunshine,  but  a  light,  whose  play 
Serves  but  to  dazzle  and  betray  ; 
Weary  and  long — its  end,  the  tomb, 
Where  darkness  spreads  her  wings  of  gloom 
That  resting  place  of  things  which  live, 
The  goal,  of  all  that  earth  can  give  ! 


TOANINFANT.  49 

It  may  be,  that  the  dreams  of  fame, 
Proud  Glory's  plume,  the  warrior's  name, 
Shall  lure  thee  to  the  field  of  blood ; 
There  like  a  god,  war's  fiery  flood 
May  bear  thee  on  !  while  far  above, 
Thy  crimson  banners  proudly  move. 
Like  the  red  clouds  which  skirt  the  sun, 
When  the  fierce  tempest-day  is  done ! 

Or  lead  thee  to  a  cloistered  cell. 
Where  Learning's  votaries  lonely  dwell ; 
The  midnight  lamp  and  brow  of  care ; 
The  frozen  heart  that  mocks  despair ; 
Consumption's  fires  to  burn  thy  cheek ; 
The  brain  that  throbs,  but  will  not  break ; 
The  travail  of  the  soul,  to  gain 
A  name,  and  die — alas  !  in  vain  ! 

Thou  reckest  not  sweet  slumberer,  there, 
Of  this  world's  crimes  ;  of  many  a  snare 
To  catch  the  soul ;  of  pleasures  wild, 
Friends  false — foes  dark — and  hearts  beguiled ; 
Of  Passion's  ministers  who  sway 
With  iron  sceptre,  all  who  stray ; 
Of  broken  hearts — still  loving  on, 
When  all  is  lost,  and  changed,  and  gone  ! 
5 


50  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

What  is  it,  that  thou  wilt  not  prove  ? 
Power,  Wealth,  Dominion,  Grandeur,  Love- 
All  the  soul's  idols  in  their  turn  ! 
And  find  each  false,  yet  wildly  burn 
To  grasp  at  all — and  love  the  cheat ; 
Smile,  when  the  ravening  vultures  eat 
Into  thy  very  bosom's  core, 
And  drink  up  that — which  is  not  gore  ! 

Thy  tears  shall  flow,  and  thou  shalt  weep 
As  he  has  wept  who  eyes  thy  sleep, 
But  weeps  no  more — his  heart  is  cold, 
Warped,  sickened,  seared,  with  woes  untold. 
And  be  it  so  !  the  clouds  which  roll 
Dark,  heavy  o'er  my  troubled  soul, 
Bring  with  them  lightnings  which  illume, 
To  shroud  the  mind  in  deeper  gloom ! 

But  no  !  dear  boy,  my  earnest  prayer 
Shall  call  on  heaven  to  bless  thee  here  ! 
Long  may'st  thou  live  to  love  thy  kind — 
Brave,  generous,  of  a  lofty  mind ! 
Thy  Father  live  again  in  thee, 
Thy  Mother  long  her  virtues  see 
Brightly  reflected  forth  in  thine — 
Her  solace  in  life's  sad  decline. 


TOANINFANT.  51 

Sleep  on  !  sleep  on  !  but  oh,  my  soul, 

This  is  not  slumber's  soft  control ! 

Boy  !t— boy !  awake  ! — that  struggling  cry 

So  faint  and  low — that  agony  ! 

The  long,  sunk,  h§avy  gasp  and  groan ! 

And  oh  !  that  desolate,  last  moan ! — 

My  God  !  the  infant  spirit's  gone ! 

Are  there  no  tears  ? — dark — dark — alone  ! 

'Tis  past !  farewell !  I  little  thought 
The  mockeries  which  my  fancy  wrought, 
From  fate's  dark  book  were  rudely  torn ! — 
That  clouds  would  darken  o'er  thy  morn ! 
That  death's  stern  hand  would  sweep  away 
The  flower  just  springing  to  the  day ! 
But  wounded  hearts  must  still  bleed  on ! 
Enough,  enough — God's  will  be  done  ! 


AN  AIR-CHATEATT. 


BY     KEHEMIAH     CLEAVELAND, 


How  beauteous  in  the  glowing  west, 
Those  thousand-tinted  isles  that  float ; 

On  the  broad  sea  of  light  they  rest, 
Or  pass  to  lovelier  realms  remote. 

Methinks  it  were  a  bliss  to  roam 

Where  those  far  fields  in  beauty  lie  ; 

Methinks  there  were  a  welcome  home, 
In  the  soft  clime  of  yonder  sky. 

On  some  bright,  sunny  cloud,  I'd  build 
My  palace,  in  the  verge  of  heaven  ; 

On  marble  fix  it  firm,  and  gild 
It's  cornices  with  gold  of  even,.. 


ANAIR-CHATEAU.  53 

From  amethystine  beds  I'd  draw 

My  blocks  to  shape  its  swelling  dome ;] 

Here  should  you  trace  the  old  Doric  law, 
There  the  Corinthian  grace  of  Kome. 

In  avenues  of  enchanting  sweep, 

Broad  oaks  and  towering  elms  should  stand  ; 
Blue  lakes  in  placid  stillness  sleep, 

And  currents  roll  o'er  silver  sand. 

Perchance,  to  animate  the  scene. 
Beyond  the  reach  of  art  and  gold, 

Some  spirit,  whose  seraphic  mien 

Should  wear  no  trace  of  earthly  mould—. 

Crowning  each  hope,  might  cheer  my  eyes 
With  beauty,  and  with  love  my  heart, 

And  to  my  sky-hung  Paradise, 
Its  last  and  loveliest  charm  impart. 

The  day,  with  her,  more  calm,  more  bright, 

Would  flit  on  silken  wing  away, 
With  her,  the  dark  and  drowsy  night 

Seem  soft  and  cheerful  as  the  day, 
5* 


54  BOWDOINPOETS. 

Pensive  we'd  rove  where  scarce  a  ray 
Pierces  the  dun,  o'er-hanging  shade, 

Or,  arm  in  arm,  delighted  stray- 
Through  flowery  lawn  and  emerald  glade. 

The  joys  of  high,  soul-kindling  thought ; 

Sweet  converse  at  the  twilight  hour  ; 
The  pleasures  of  a  life,  untaught 

To  pant  for  wealth  or  sigh  for  power  ; — 

The  calm  delights  of  lettered  ease  ; 

Of  virtuous  toil  the  peaceful  rest  : — 
Who  finds  his  bliss  in  such  as  these, 

How  truly  wise,  how  deeply  blest  ! 

Of  joy, — on  earth,  or  in  the  skies, — 
But  one  perennial  spring  is  found ; 

Deep  in  the  soul  that  fountain  lies, 
And  flowers  of  Eden  fringe  it  round* 


MENTAL  BEAUTY. 


Y     RICHARD     H.     VOSE. 


I  love  the  hour  when  day  is  spent, 
And  stars  are  in  the  firmament : — 
Sweet  hour  of  night,  thy  shadows  roll, 
A  heavenly  calmness  o'er  the  soul. 

I  love  to  gaze  upon  the  deep, 
When  furious  storms  are  lulled  to  rest ; 
How  calmly  sweet  those  billows  sleep. 
And  mildly  smile  on  ocean's  breast. 

Oh!  who  can  gaze  upon  the  ocean, 
And  see  the  moonbeams  sparkle  there, 
Nor  feel  the  flame  of  pure  devotion. 
Nor  offer  up  one  fervent  prayer. 


66  BOWDOINPOETS. 

And  who  has  marked  the  rainbow's  smile, 
That  emblem  of  our  Maker's  love, 
And  did  not  burn  with  love  the  while 
To  join  the  adoring  train  above  ? 

But  there's  a  beauty  far  more  bright. 
Than  Ocean's  gems  of  fairest  hue — 
Than  starry  hosts  of  heavenly  light, 
When  beaming  from  that  sky  of  blue. 

The  glorious  sky  shall  pass  away, 
The  mighty  deep  must  cease  to  flow, 
Created  things  shall  all  decay, — 
This  is  our  sentence,  this  our  woe. 

Yet  earth,  with  Heaven  can  boast  alone, 
A  brighter  beauty,  more  refined. 
Its  centre  is  the  Eternal's  throne — 
It  is  the  beauty  of  the  mind. 


THE  WITHERED  FLOWERS 


BY    EDMTTND     FL  AGG 


I  KNEW  they  would  perish  ! 

Those  beautiful  flowers — 
As  the  hopes  that  we  cherish 

In  youth's  sunny  bowers  : — 
I  knew  they'd  be  faded  ! 

Though  with  fond,  gentle  care 
Their  bright  leaves  were  shaded, 

Decay  still  was  there. 

So  all  that  is  brightest 

Ever  first  fades  away, 
And  the  joys  that  leap  lightest 

The  earliest  decay. 
The  heart  that  was  nearest. 

The  widest  will  rove, 
And  the  friend  that  was  dearest 

The  first  cease  to  love. 


58  BOWDOI  N     POETS. 

And  the  purest,  the  noblest, 

The  loveliest — we  know 
Are  ever  the  surest. 

The  soonest  to  go. 
The  birds  that  sing  sweetest, 

The  flowers  most  pure, 
In  their  beauty  are  fleetest. 

In  their  fate  the  most  sure. 

Yet  still  though  thy  flowers 

Are  withered  and  gone, 
They  will  live  like  some  hours 

In  memory  alone. 
In  that  hallowed  shrine  only 

Sleep  things  we  would  cherish, 
Pure,  priceless,  loved,  lonely, 

They  never  can  perish. 

Then  I'll  mourn  ye  no  more. 

Ye  pale  leaves  that  are  shed, 
Though  your  brightness  is  o'er. 

Your  perfume  is  not  fled  ; 
And  like  thine  aroma — 

The  spirit  of  flowers — 
Remembrance  will  hover 

O'er  the  grave  of  past  hours. 


THE    NOTES    OF  THE    BIRDS 


Well  do  I  love  those  various  harmonies 
That  ring  so  gaily  in  Spring's  budding  woods, 
And  in  the  thickets,  and  green,  quiet  haunts, 
And  lonely  copses  of  the  Summer-time, 
And  in  red  Autumn's  ancient  solitudes. 

If  thou  art  pained  with  the  World's  noisy  stir, 

Or  crazed  with  its  mad  tumults,  and  weighed  down 

With  any  of  the  ills  of  human  life  ; 

If  thou  art  sick  and  weak,  or  mournest  at  the  loss 

Of  brethren  gone  to  that  far-distant  land 

To  which  we  all  do  pass,  gentle  and  poor, 

The  gayest  and  the  gravest,  all  alike — 

Then  turn  into  the  peaceful  woods,  and  hear 

The  thrilling  music  of  the  forest  birds. 


60  BOWDOINPOETS. 

How  rich  the  varied  choir.     The  unquiet  Finch 
Calls  from  the  distant  hollows,  and  the  Wren 
Uttereth  her  sweet  and  mellow  plaint  at  times, 
And  the  thrush  mourneth  where  the  kalmia  hangs 
Its  crimson-spotted  cups,  or  chirps  half  hid 
Amid  the  lowly  dog-wood's  snowy  flowers, 
And  the  Blue-jay  flits  by,  from  tree  to  tree  ; 
And  spreading  its  rich  pinions,  fills  the  ear 
"With  its  shrill-sounding  and  unsteady  cry. 

With  the  sweet  airs  of  Spring  the  Robin  comes, 
And  in  her  simple  song  there  seems  to  gush 
A  strain  of  sorrow,  when  she  visiteth 
Her  last  year's  withered  nest.     But  when  the  gloom 
Of  the  deep  twilight  falls,  she  takes  her  perch 
Upon  the  red-stemmed  hazel's  slender  twig 
That  overhangs  the  brook,  and  suits  her  song 
To  the  slow  rivulet's  inconstant  chime. 

In  the  last  days  of  Autumn,  when  the  corn 
Lies  sweet  and  yellow  in  the  harvest  field. 
And  the  gay  company  of  reapers  bind 
The  bearded  wheat  in  sheaves,  then  peals  abroad 
The  Blackbird's  merry  chant.     I  love  to  hear, 
Bold  plunderer,  thy  mellow  burst  of  song 
Float  from  thy  watch-place  on  the  mossy  tree 
Close  at  the  corn-field  edge. 


NOTES     OF     THE     BIRDS.  61 

Lone  Whippoorwill ! 
There  is  much  sweetness  in  thy  fitful  hymn, 
Heard  in  the  drowsy  watches  of  the  night. 
Oft-times  when  all  the  village  lights  are  out 
And  the  wide  air  is  still,  I  hear  thee  chant 
Thy  hollow  dirge,  like  some  recluse  who  takes 
His  lodging  in  the  wilderness  of  woods, 
And  lifts  his  anthem  when  the  world  is  still : 
And  the  dim,  solemn  night,  that  brings  to  man 
And  to  the  herds,  deep  slumbers,  and  sweet  dews 
To  the  red  roses  and  the  herbs,  doth  find 
No  eye  save  thine  a  watcher  in  her  halls. 
I  hear  thee  oft  at  midnight,  when  the  Thrush 
And  the  green,  roving  Linnet  are  at  rest, 
And  the  blithe,  twittering  Swallows  have  long  ceased 
Their  noisy  note,  and  folded  up  their  wings. 

Far  up  some  brook's  still  course,  whose  current 

mines 
The  forest's  blackened  roots,  and  whose  green  marge 
Is  seldom  visited  by  human  foot. 
The  lonely  Heron  sits,  and  harshly  breaks 
The  Sabbath  silence  of  the  wilderness  : 
And  you  may  find  her  by  some  reedy  pool. 
Or  brooding  gloomily  on  some  time-stained  rock, 
Beside  some  misty  and  far-reaching  lake. 


62  BOWDOINPOETS. 

Most  awful  is  thy  deep  and  heavy  boom, 

Grey  watcher  of  the  waters  !  thou  art  king 

Of  the  blue  lake ;  and  all  the  winged  kind 

Do  fear  the  echo  of  thine  angry  cry. 

How  bright  thy  savage  eye  !  Thou  lookest  down 

And  seest  the  shining  fishes  as  they  glide ; 

And  poising  thy  grey  wing,  thy  glossy  beak 

Swift  as  an  arrow  strikes  its  roving  prey. 

Oft-times  I  see  thee  through  the  curling  mist 

Dart,  like  a  Spectre  of  the  night,  and  hear 

Thy  strange,  bewildering  call,  like  the  wild  scream 

Of  one  whose  life  is  perishing  in  the  sea. 

And  now  would'st  thou,  O  man  !  delight  the  ear 
With  earth's  delicious  sounds,  or  charm  the  eye 
With  beautiful  creations  ?     Then  pass  forth 
And  find  them  midst  those  many-colored  birds 
That  fill  the  glowing  woods.     The  richest  hues 
Lie  in  their  spler^did  plumage,  and  their  tones 
Are  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  lute, 
Or  the  harp's  melody,  or  the  notes  that  gush 
So  thrillingly  from  beauty's  ruby  lip. 


THE  HAUNTED  WOOD 


BY     ISAAC     m'LELLAN,     JR 


I  OFTEN  come  to  this  lonely  place, 

And  forget  the  stir  of  my  restless  race ; 

Forget  the  woes  of  human  life, 

The  bitter  pang  and  the  constant  strife, 

The  angry  word  and  the  cruel  taunt, 

The  sight  and  the  sound  of  guilt  and  want, 

And  the  frequent  tear  by  the  widow  shed, 

When  her  infant  asks  in  vain  for  bread. 

All  these  I  put  from  my  mind  aside, 

And  forget  the  offence  of  worldly  pride. 

It  is  said  that  the  Spirits  of  buried  men 
Oft  come  to  this  wicked  world  again ; 
That  the  churchyard  turf  is  often  trod 
By  the  unlaid  tenants  of  tomb  and  sod ; 
That  the  midnight  sea  itself  is  swept. 
By  those  who  have  long  beneath  it  slept. 


64  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

And  they  say  of  this  old,  mossy  wood, 
Whose  hoary  trunks  have  for  ages  stood, 
That  every  knoll  and  dim-lit  glade 
Is  haunted  at  night  by  its  restless  Shade. 

It  is  told  that  an  Indian  King,  whose- name 
Hath  perished  long  from  the  scroll  of  fame, 
And  whose  thousand  warriors  slumber  low, 
In  equal  rest  with  the  spear  and  bow, 
Was  wont  to  pursue  the  fallow  deer. 
And  hold  his  feasts,  and  make  merry  here, 
And  seek  his  repose  in  the  noontide  heat, 
By  this  noisy  brook  at  my  very  feet — 
And  here,  at  the  close  of  his  sternest  strife, 
He  finished  his  rude,  and  unquiet  life. 

It  is  said  that  on  moonlight  nights,  the  gleam 
Of  his  battle  Spear  flits  o'er  this  stream : 
And  they  say  there's  a  shiver  along  the  grass 
Where  the  restless  feet  of  the  Spectre  pass. 
And  a  rustle  of  leaves  in  the  thicket's  gloom 
When  he  nods  his  dusky  eagle  plume. 
And,  methinks,  I  have  heard  his  war-horn  bray, 
Like  the  call  of  waters  far  away  ; 
And  the  arrow  whistle  along  the  glade 
Where  the  chieftain's  giant  bones  are^^laid. 


THE     HAUNTED     WOOD.  65 

And  yonder,  where  the  grey  willows  lave 
Their  silvery  tassels  beneath  the  wave, 
By  the  hollow  valley's  lonely  tide, 
You  may  find  the  grave  of  a  Suicide. 
And  'tis  said,  at  the  noon  of  a  dewy  night, 
When  the  hills  are  touched  with  the  silver  light, 
That  a  Spirit  leans  o'er  that  lonely  turf, 
Like  a  snowy  wreath  of  the  o'cean  surf. 
And  a  sound  like  a  passionate  mourner's  cry, 
Will  often  startle  the  passer  by. 


6* 


ANDRE 


Y     CHARLES     W.     UPHAM 


Beside  his  path  the  beauteous  Hudson  rolled 
In  silent  majesty.     The  silvery  mist, 
Like  the  soft  incense  of  an  eastern  fane, 
Went  sparkling  upward,  gloriously  wreathing 
In  the  sun-light.     And  the  keen-eyed  eagle. 
From  his  high  aerie  mid  the  crags,  looked  down 
In  majesty,  where  stood  the  lonely  one, 
In  silence,  musingly — 

'Would  it  were  thus 
With  me.     My  spirit  shares  not  now,  as  wont. 
In  the  wild  majesty  of  nature  here. 
Melhinks  there  is  some  weight  within,  sinking 
JVIy  better  thoughts.     Would  now  that  I  might  lead 
Some  gallant  battle  charge — where  the  wild  trump 
Enkindles  valor,  and  the  free  winds  swell 
My  country's  banner.' 

^t-  -^  -^  Atr  •U'  '^  -ilf 

'W'  ■TV*  •TV'  "Vr-  'Ts*  •75'  -  'Tir 


ANDRE.  67 

It  was  a  lowly  room ; 
And  the  stern  heavy  tread,  that  by  the  door 
Went  to  and  fro,  told  it  the  captive's  cell. 
And  he  was  there ;  the  same,  with  his  high  brow, 
And  soul-disclosing  eye; — and  he  was  doomed: — 
But  on  his  face  a  smile  seemed  gathering, 
And  the  fixed  gaze  marked  that  a  wakeful  dream 
Had  borne  him  far  away.     And  now  he  saw 
His  father's  home,  in  its  old  stateliness, 
Amid  the  bending  trees  ;  and  the  bright  band 
Of  his  young  sisters,  with  their  voices  gay, 
Echoing  there,  like  some  glad  melody. 
And  then  another  form,  bewildering 
Each  thought,  came  rising  up  in  peerless  grace. 
But  dimly  seen,  like  forms  which  sleep  creates. 
His  breath  grew  quicker,  and  his  only  thought 
Dwelt  upon  her,  as  seen  in  that  last  hour, — 
Her  full  dark  eye  on  his,  and  the  closed  lip 
Just  quivering  with  a  tender  smile,  with  which 
The  proud  young  thing  would  veil  her  parting  grief, 
And  check  her  trembling  voice,  that  did  outsteal. 
Like  witching  tones  upborne  upon  the  wind 
Of  summer  night — telling  of  her  high  trust. 
But  suddenly  a  change  was  on  his  face, 
And  then  he  paced  the  room  in  agony 
At  on'c^iark  thought,     'Twas  not  that  he  must  die ; 


68  BOWDOIN     POETS, 

But  that  he  should  not  die  a  soldier's  death  : 
Alas,  apd  shall  she  hear  i%,  that  bright  one 
That  ever  saw  him  in  her  dreams,  rise  up 
Like  the  young  eagle  to  the  sun  ? 

4^,  JA.  *it.  ,ii.  .Ai,  s^  J£. 

^  •Tr  -Tr  TV*  •Tv^  "T^  ^ 

The  morning  came, 
And  he  stood  up  to  die  ; — the  beautiful 
And  brave — the  loved  one  of  a  sunny  home — 
To  die  as  felons  die  ; — yet  proudly  calm, 
With  his  high  brow  unmoved.     And  the  full  soul 
Beamed  in  his  eye  unconquered,  and  his  lip 
Was  motionless,  as  is  the  forest  leaf 
In  the  calm  prelude  to  the  storm.     He  died ; 
And  the  stern  warriors,  to  his  country  foes. 
Wept  for  his  fate.     And  who,  that  e'er  had  hopes, 
Weeps  not  for  him,  meeting  such  misery 
In  glory's  path  ? 


GATHERING  OF  THE  COYEMNTERS, 


Y     GEOR&E     F.     MAGOUN. 


No  proud  cathedral  bell  the  prayer-call  bearing, 
Swung  solemnly  within  its  lofty  tower, 
All  sights  and  sounds,  and  their  true  hearts  unerring 
Proclaimed  the  hour. 

The  sunset-wane  of  day's  resplendent  glory, 
Wrote  on  the  clouds  in  roseate  letters  there. 
Like  some  fine  limner  famed  in  ancient  story, 

"  To  prayer  !  To  prayer !" 
The  breeze  that  waved  the  meek,  dew-dripping 

flowers, 
And  breathed  inspiring  fragrance  on  the  air, 
A  murmur  sent  through  all  their  blossomy  bowers, 

"  To  prayer  !  To  prayer  !" 


70  BOWDOINPOETS. 

Not  mid  the  pomp  of  serried  arch  and  column 
They  led  their  meek  and  reverent  array ; 
Where  all  was  wild,  yet  Sabbath-] ike  and  solemn, 
They  turned  to  pray. 

Wild,  and  yet  Sabbath-like !     Huge  rocky  masses 
Were  piled  that  yawning  cavern-temple  round, 
Where  the  fierce  earthquake  in  its  rifting  passes 
A  home  had  found ! 

The  Patriarch  came,  his  long  white  locks  revealing 
Time's  sway  of  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear. 
And  the  wee  infant  tottered  from  his  dwelling 
Of  scarce  a  year. 

The  mother  came.     Her  woman's  heart  will  falter 
As  priestly  hands  her  baptized  infant  lift, 
And  still  the  white-robed  maidens  at  the  altar 
Blush  at  the  gift ! 

#  #  ^     Stay! — A  swift  banner-plaid  went 
flashing 
High  o'er  the  rocky  verge  with  sudden  gleam, 
And  sullenly  a  heavy  stone  fell  plashing. 
Upon  the  stream  ! 


GATHERING  OF  THE  COVENANTERS.  71 

Up !  worshippers  !  unto  your  Eyrie  dwelling 
If  ye  would  never  death  or  torture  know ! 
Like  a  wild  torrent  from  the  mountains  swelling 
Burst  the  red  foe  ! 

And  lo  !  while  fiery  curse  and  imprecation 
Pour  in  hot  volleys  on  the  praise-stirred  air  ; 
The  mountain-flood, — swift  herald  of  salvation, — 
Itself  is  there ! 

Their  foam-flecked  crests  o'er  hill  and  valley  flinging, 
On  !  on  !  the  raving,  thundering  waters  pour  ! 
On  that  wild  sea  no  wave-washed  corse  is  swinging, 
One  yell ! — 'twas  o'er  ! 

While  high  above,  unheard  amid  the  thunder, 
The  Covenanters  praise  that  vengeful  God, 
Who  flung  the  mighty  from  his  prey  asunder 
On  that  dark  flood  ! 

That  spirit  reigneth  still !     So,  Christian,  waging 
A  terrible  war  along  life's  corse-strown  road, 
Fear  not !   One  power  can  calm  thy  foe's  fierce 
raging— 

Oh  !  trust  in  God  ! 


MUSIC  AND  MEMORY 


Y    NATHANIEL    L.    SAWYER. 


How  oft  some  low  and  gentle  strain, 
From  out  the  mellow  horn  or  flute, 
Rolling  along  the  moon-lit  plain, 
Will  waken  buried  years  again — 

Which  else  to  memory  had  been  mute. 
Oh !  music  hath  a  magic  power, 
That  serves  to  soothe  a  weary  hour. 
When  perished  hopes  and  fortunes  lower  ; 
From  present  care  and  toil  it  weans, 
And  wafts  us  back  to  halcyon  scenes 
Of  boyhood,  when  the  pulse  ran  wild. 
And  every  vision  undefiled 
Beamed  on  the  waking  slumberer  bright, 
Instinct  with  ever  fresh  delio^ht. 


MUSIC     AND     MEMORY.  73 

I've  Stood  upon  a  sea-girt  isle, 

The  heavens  and  earth  were  still,  the  while. 

Lit  by  the  mellow  moonbeam's  smile — 

While  strains  of  melody- 
Awoke  my  dreaming  spirit  there, 
Dispelling  each  intrusive  care. 
As  rung  upon  the  slumbering  air 

The  bugle  o'er  the  sea. 

The  bugle  hath  a  thrilling  note, 
That  coming  from  a  summer  boat, 
Makes  many  a  vision  round  us  float 

Of  witching  'Auld  Lang  Syne  ;' — 
It  gives  the  heart  an  answering  chime, 
Makes  youth  triumphant  over  time, 
And  helps  the  clay-clogged  soul  to  climb 

Where  Romance  dwells  divine. 

There's  music  in  the  lone  cascade, 
That  having  swept  the  upland  glade, 
Now  dashes  down  where  years  have  made 

A  deep  and  wild  ravine ; 
It  minds  us  of  life's  opening  spring, 
Joys  early  ripe  thick-clustering — 
And  mimic  hopes  on  golden  wing. 

Glancing  the  while  between  ! 


74  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

The  steeple  bell  that  fills  the  air, 
The  organ  in  the  house  of  prayer, 
With  voices  chanting,  all  declare 

In  Sabbath  morning  hour, 
^Mid  shadows  of  a  greener  year — 
The  friends,  whose  lessening  forms  appear 

With  undiminished  power. 

The  Switzer  dreams  of  Father-land, 
While  captive  Judah's  mourning  band 

By  Babel's  willowy  stream 
Hang  up  their  harps. — From  palace  dome, 
To  cottage  thatched,  where-e'er  we  roam. 
Soft  music  turns  the  exile  home 

Where  passed  his  young  life's  dream. 

The  stars  of  heaven  that  o'er  us  beam, 
The  murmur  of  some  gentle  stream, 

Will  open  memory's  cell — 
And  lead  the  wanderer  back  through  years 
Of  woes  and  pains  and  wasting  fears, 
And  joys  that  flash  through  streaming  tears, 

And  leave  him  there  to  dwell 
With  youthful  haunts  and  school-boy  plays, 
And  hills  and  streams  and  sunny  days — 
Where  memory  ever  fondly  strays. 


MUSIC     AND     MEMORY.  75 

Ay !  thus  I  thought,  as  one  lone  eve 

The  balmy  air  came  whispering  by, 
And  nature's  spirit  seemed  to  grieve, 

And  still  above,  the  azure  sky 
Seemed  weeping  silent  tears  of  dew — 
While  far  adown  night's  sombre  hue, 
Pale  Luna's  beam  came  wandering  through 
The  star-paved  firmament  of  blue. 

Ay !  thus  I  thought  that  moony  night 

When  musing  in  yon  classic  hall, 
And  dim  the  unreplenished  light 

Shone  flickering  on  the  shadowy  wall, 
While  future  life  lay  spread  before — 
A  slope  we  yearn  to  travel  o'er, — 
Till  far  along  the  moon-lit  plain, 
Through  Bowdoin's  halls  was  heard  again 
Peal  out  the  Pandean's  thrilling  strain. 

'Twas  then  my  thoughts  were  hurried  back, 
Along  life's  deviating  track, — 
'Twas  then  I  felt  that  music's  power 
Could  soothe  to  peace  the  troubled  hour, — 
*Twas  then  I  struck  my  harp  anew, 
Music  and  Memory,  unto  you. 


THE     TROUBADOUR 


BY     FREDERIC     MELLEN 


He  leaned  beneath  the  casement,  and  his  gaze 
Went  forth  upon  the  night,  as  if  his  thoughts 
Held  dark  communion  with  its  secret  shadows  ; 
And  as  the  light  stole  in  among  the  leaves, 
There  might  be  traced  upon  his  marble  brow 
The  lines  that  grief,  not  time,  had  written  there. 
He  rested  on  his  harp,  and  as  his  hand 
Swept  lightly  o'er  the  strings,  its  sadden'd  tone 
Seem'd  like  the  echo  of  some  spirit's  moan. 

Lady !  the  dark  long  night 

Of  grief  and  sorrow, 
That  knows  no  cheerful  light, 

No  sun-bright  morrow, 


TROUBADOUR.  77 

Is  gathering  round  my  heart, 

In  gloom  and  tears, 
That  will  not,  can  not  part, 

For  long,  long  years. 

Oh !  would  that  thought  could  die  ; 

And  memory 
Pass,  like  the  night-wind's  sigh, 

Away  from  me. 

There  is  a  resting  place. 

Cold,  dark,  and  deep ; 
Where  grief  shall  leave  no  trace, 

And  misery  sleep. 

Would  I  were  slumbering  there, 

From  life's  sad  dream  ; 
The  tempest's  cold,  bleak  air, 

My  requiem. 

Lady !  my  harp's  sad  song 

Hath  wing'd  its  flight ; 
But  still,  its  chords  along, 

Murmurs  my  last  '  good  night !' 

— The  melody  had  ceased, — the  harper  gone  ; 
And,  silent  all,  the  waning  night  pass'd  on. 

7* 


¥EEP  NOT  FOR  THE  DEAD. 


BY     B.     B.     THATCHER.* 


Oh,  lightly,  lightly  tread 
Upon  these  early  ashes,  ye  that  weep 
For  her  that  slumbers  in  the  dreamless  sleep, 

Of  this  eternal  bed  ! 

Hallow  her  humble  tomb 
With  your  kind  sorrow,  ye  that  knew  her  well, 
And  climbed  with  her  youth's  brief  but  brilliant  deli, 

'Mid  sunlight  and  fair  bloom. 

Glad  voices  whispered  round 
As  from  the  stars, — bewildering  harmonies, — 
And  visions  of  sweet  beauty  filled  the  skies, 

And  the  wide  vernal  ground 

With  hopes  like  blossoms  shone  : 
Oh,  vainly  these  shall  glow,  and  vainly  wreathe 
Verdure  for  the  veiled  bosom,  that  may  breathe 
^      No  joy — no  answering  tone. 


WEEP  NOT  FOR  THE  DEAD.       79 

Yet  weep  not  for  the  dead 
That  in  the  glory  of  green  youth  do  fall, 
Ere  phrenzied  passion  or  foul  sin  one  thrall 

Upon  their  souls  hath  spread. 

Weep  not !     They  are  at  rest 
From  misery,  and  madness,  and  all  strife, 
That  makes  but  night  of  day,  and  death  of  life, 

In  the  grave's  peaceful  breast. 

Nor  ever  more  shall  come 
To  them  the  breath  of  envy,  nor  the  rankling  eye 
Shall  follow  them,  where  side  by  side  they  lie — 

Defenceless,  noiseless,  dumb. 

Aye — though  their  memory's  green, 
In  the  fond  heart,  where  love  for  them  was  born,' 
With  sorrow's  silent  dews,  each  eve,  each  morn. 

Be  freshly  kept,  unseen — 

Yet  weep  not !     They  shall  soar 
As  the  freed  eagle  of  the  skies,  that  pined, 
But  pines  no  more,  for  his  own  mountain  wind. 
And  the  old  ocean-shore. 

Rejoice !  rejoice  !     How  long 
Should  the  faint  spirit  wrestle  with  its  clay, 


80  BOWDOINPOETS. 

Fluttering  in  vain  for  the  far  cloudless  day, 
And  for  the  angel's  song  ? 

It  mounts  !     It  mounts  !     Oh,  spread 

The  banner  of  gay  victory — and  sing 

For  the  enfranchised — and  bright  garlands  bring- 
But  weep  not  for  the  dead  ! 


THE  MOTHER 


PERISHING    IN     A     SNOW-STORM."^ 


BY     SEBA     SMITH 


The  cold  wind  swept  the  mountain's  height, 

And  pathless  was  the  dreary  wild, 
And  'mid  the  cheerless  hours  of  night 

A  mother  wandered  with  her  child. 
As  through  the  drifting  snow  she  pressed, 
The  babe  was  sleeping  on  her  breast. 

*"  In  the  year  1821,  a  Mrs.  Blake  perished  in  a  snow-storm 
in  the  night  time,  while  travelling  oyer  a  spur  of  the  Green 
Mountains  in  Vermont.  She  had  an  infant  with  her,  which 
was  found  alive  and  well  in  the  morning,  being  carefully  wrap- 
ped in  the  mother's  clothing." 


82 


BOWDOIN     POETS 


And  colder  still  the  winds  did  blow, 
And  darker  hours  of  night  came  on, 

And  deeper  grew  the  drifting  snow ; 

Her  limbs  were  chilled  her  strength  was  gone. 

*  Oh,  God !'  she  cried,  in  accents  wild, 

•  If  I  must  perish,  save  my  child  !* 

She  stripped  her  mantle  from  her  breast, 
And  bared  her  bosom  to  the  storm, 

And  round  the  child  she  wrapped  the  vest, 
And  smiled  to  think  her  babe  was  warm. 

With  one  cold  kiss  one  tear  she  shed. 

And  sunk  upon  her  snowy  bed. 

At  dawn  a  traveller  passed  by. 

And  saw  her  'neath  a  snowy  veil ; 
The  frost  of  death  was  in  her  eye, 

Her  cheek  was  cold,  and  hard,  and  pale  ; — 
He  moved  the  robe  from  off  the  child, 
The  babe  looked  up  and  sweetly  smiled ! 


THE  POET'S  MISSION 


Y    THE     EDITOR 


Oh  ye,  who  sweep  with  an  unfettered  hand 
The  myriad  harp-strings  of  the  human  soul, 
Waking  a  myriad  melody  thereon, 
Strike  us  the  notes  of  joy !     Ye  who  have  poured, 
From  harps  that  might  have  hreathed  the  tones 

of  heaven, 
A  minstrelsy  of  madness,  mocking  us 
With  gall-cups  in  our  agonies  of  woe, — 
Weaving  the  night-pall  of  a  black  despair, 
When  the  faint  world,  with  suffering  oppressed. 
Hath  clamored  for  a  hope  ;  ye  who  have  lured 
With  an  o'er-mastering  charm,  beguiled  hearts, 
Caught  with  the  witchery  of  your  honeyed  tones, — 
Dash  from  a  brother's  lip  the  Circean  bowl. 
And  gird  you  to  uplift  the  suffering  heart 
Of  the  great  world  aweary.    Where  the  clouds 
Darken  above  our  heritage  of  pain. 


84  BOWDOINPOETS. 

Part  them  a  little  for  the  light  of  heaven, 
And  let  a  sunbeam  to  its  shrouded  eye. 

Priesthood  of  holy  song,  go  in,  go  in 
To  the  heart's  altars,  with  a  vow  of  peace. 
Learn  the  high  mission  God  hath  given  you, 
And  in  the  quiet  of  your  still  retreats, 
Conning  your  pleasant  thoughts,  or  fashioning 
Each  rapt  impulsion  of  the  glowing  soul 
To  the  rich  cadences  of  breathing  song, — 
Touched  with  the  feeling  of  all  human  woe, 
Lift  up  the  anthem  of  your  solemn  choir 
In  kindly  sympathy  with  a  suftering  world. 


THE  RAINBOW- 


BY     CHAKLES     H.    UPTON. 


Ethereal  diadem !  whose  blended  rays 
From  no  meridian  splendor  won — 

Yet  burst,  full-formed,  upon  the  wondrous  gaze, 
A  frontlet  braided  by  the  sun. 

Celestial  smile  !  beneath  whose  beams  the  dove 

Afar  the  olive-branch  descried. 
And  bore  the  emblem  of  returning  love 

Across  the  water's  ebbing  tide. 

Resplendent  arc !  whose  prism-blended  hues 
First  dwelt  above  with  One  alone, — 

Till  He  the  holy  effluence  did  diffuse 
Around  the  footstool  of  His  throne. 

Sign -manual  of  God  !  inscribed  on  high, 

In  characters  of  glowing  light — 
Where,  on  the  tablet  of  the  vaulted  sky, 
'        None  but  Divinity  could  write  ! 
8 


EXCELSIOR 


T     HENEY     W.     LONGFELI.OW, 


The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device 
Excelsior ! 

His  brow  was  sad  ;  his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a  faulchion  from  its  sheath. 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue. 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright ; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior ! 


EXCELSIOR.  87 

"  Try  not  the  Pass  !  "  the  old  man  said  ; 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 

The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  !  " 

And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied 
Excelsior ! 

"  O  stay,"   the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast !  " 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye. 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior  ! 


"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch. 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  !  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air 
Excelsior  ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found. 


88  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device 
Excelsior  ! 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless  but  beautiful,  he  lay. 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior ! 


TO  THE  AUTHOR'S  WIFE, 


ABSENT     ON     A     VISIT. 


Y     SEBA    SMITH. 


Come  home  my  dear  Elizabeth  ; 

I'm  sure  could  you  but  know 
The  sadness  of  my  lonely  hours, 

You  would  not  leave  me  so. 

If  love  could  not  restrain  you, 
Sure  the  kindness  of  your  heart 

Would  not  allow  that  mine  so  long 
Should  feel  this  aching  smart. 

Like  the  dove  that  found  no  resting 
On  the  weary  waters  wide, 

I  wander,  but  I  find  no  rest 
Apart  from  thee,  my  bride, 
8* 


90  BOWDOIN     POETS- 

Yes,  hride  I  still  must  call  thee, 
Though  sixteen  years  have  fled, 

Fraught  with  the  ills  and  joys  of  life, 
Since  the  day  that  saw  us  wed. 

Yes,  hride  I  still  must  call  thee, 

For  still  I  feel  thou  art 
The  morning  light  unto  mine  eyes, 

And  the  life-blood  to  my  heart. 

Kind  friends  may  be  around  me. 
With  gentle  words  and  tone, 

And  all  the  light,  gay  world  may  smile, 
But  still  I  am  alone. 

The  bright  bird  that  you  left  me. 
Chirps  often  through  the  day, 

And  his  music  but  reminds  me 
That  you  are  far  away. 

For  your  sake  I  will  feed  him 

With  fresh  seeds  and  with  flowers. 

And  his  morning  and  his  evening  song 
Shall  count  my  weary  hours* 


TO    THE    author's    WIFE.  91 

And  oft  our  little  Edward 

Comes  clinging  to  my  knee, 
And  says  with  loud  and  hearty  laugh^ 

*  Dear  Father,  play  with  me.' 

And  when  I  kiss  his  little  cheek, 

His  bright  blue  eyes  look  glad ; 
And  I  talk  with  him  and  play  with  him. 

But  still  my  heart  is  sad. 

My  sun  of  life,  Elizabeth, 

Hath  passed  its  fervent  noon  ; 
I  feel  the  '  sear  and  yellow  leaf ' 

Will  be  upon  me  soon  : — 

But  though  misfortunes  press  me, 

And  the  world  be  false  and  cold. 
Let  thy  love  and  presence  bless  me 

And  I'll  mind  not  growing  old. 

And  I'll  mind  not  fortune's  frowning, 

Nor  the  heartlessness  of  men. 
When  I  see  thee  home  returning,. 

Our  abode  to  cheer  again  ^ 


THE  WABASH 


BY     JOHN     B.     L.     soul: 


Soft,  silent  Wabash !  on  thy  sloping  verge 
As  fixed  in  thought,  I  stay  my  wandering  feet, 
And  list  the  gentle  rippling  of  thy  surge. 
What  moving  spirits  do  my  fancy  greet ; — 
What  flitting  phantoms  from  thy  breast  emerge, 
Forms  for  the  shrouded  sepulchre  more  meet ! 

In  thy  dark  flowing  waters,  I  would  see 
More  than  is  wont  to  fix  the  transient  gaze 
Of  vulgar  admiration,  though  there  be 
Enough  to  wake  the  poet's  sweetest  lays 
In  all  thy  silent  beauty  ; — For  to  me 
Thou  hast  a  voice — a  voice  of  other  days. 


THEWABASH,  93 

Nor  can  I  look  upon  thee  with  a  heart 

Unmoved  by  the  intrusive  thoughts  of  sadness, 

While  fancy  pictures  thee  not  as  thou  art, 

But  what  thou  hast  been,  when  the  tones  of  gladness, 

Were  heard  upon  thy  borders,  ere  the  smart 

Of  stern  Oppression  turned  that  joy  to  madness  ! 

How  oft  upon  thy  undulating  breast 
The  light  pirogue  hath  skimmed  its  silent  way, 
When  nature  all  around  had  sunk  to  rest. 
And  long  had  faded  the  last  beam  of  day  : 
And  still  it  onward  leaped  the  moonlit  crest 
And  dashed  delighted  through  the  silver  spray. 

Urged  by  the  spirit  of  revenge  and  hate, 
The  savage  tenant  knit  his  fiery  brow — 
And  fanned  the  flame  he  knew  not  to  abate 
Save  by  the  unwearied  chase  and  deadly  blow, 
Toiling  with  ceaseless  energy  to  sate 
His  vengeance  on  some  far  devoted  foe  ! 

Perchance  secluded  in  yon  green  retreat, 
Some  lordly  chieftain,  in  his  pride  of  power, 
Hath  lingered  oft  in  rapturous  thought  to  meet 
His  dark-eyed  goddess  at  the  sunset  hour. 
Where  wanton  zephyrs  dance  with  flitting  feet, 
And  kiss  in  gambols  rude  each  blushing  flower. 


94  BOWDOINPOETS. 

Here  with  the  green  wood  for  his  temple  dome. 
This  fragrant  bank  his  consecrated  shrine — 
Mayhap  the  pious  votary  oft  hath  come, 
On  nature's  breast  his  sorrows  to  resign  ; 
From  day's  dull  avocations  far  to  roam 
With  gazing  on  such  loveliness  as  thine ! 

Soft,  silent  Wabash  !  thy  still  waters  glide 
All  heedless  of  my  meditative  lay ! 
But  from  the  tranquil  beauty  of  thy  pride, 
I'll  glean  such  moral  teachings  as  I  may  :— 
Howe'er  may  vary  Fortune's  fickle  tide, 
Like  thee  in  sweet  content  I'll  wend  my  peaceful 
way« 


ITRIC  POETRY, 


Y    WILLIAM     CUTTER, 


Music,  one  day,  was  straymg" 

In  Poesy's  sweet  bowers, 
Like  a  pleased  infant  playing 

Among  the  fragrant  flowers — 
Now  with  the  fairies  tripping 

In  dances  light  as  air, 
And  now  from  rose-hearts  sipping 

The  nectar  treasured  there. 

At  length  with  feasting  sated. 

And  wearied  out  with  play, 
She  found  herself  belated. 

And  thought  it  best  to  stay. 
Her  harp  of  tuneful  numbers 

Upon  a  rose  she  flung, 
And  sought  reviving  slumbers 

The  dewy  leaves  among. 


96  BOWDOINPOETS. 

While  there  divinely  dreaming 

Of  fairies,  fays,  and  flowers, 
And  still  in  fancy  seeming 

To  revel  in  those  bowers — 
Fair  Poesy  espied  her, 

And,  taking  up  her  Lyre, 
Seated  herself  beside  her, 

And  touched  the  trembling  wire. 

Startled,  but  not  affrighted. 

She  swept  the  Lyre  again. 
Till  every  cord  delighted 

Breathed  out  its  sweetest  strain  : 
And  while  those  strains  were  dying 

In  echo's  faintest  tone, 
'  I  would,'  she  said,  deep  sighing, 

'This  Lyre  were  all  my  own.' 

Music  just  then  awaking, 
Replied  with  gentle  mien, 

*  There  can  be  no  mistaking, 

'  Your  right  to  it,  fair  queen  ! 

*  For  she  who  can  so  sweetly 

♦Inform  each  breathing  wire, 

*  Is  named  and  crowned  most  meetly 

'  The  Mistress  of  the  Lyre.' 


LYRICPOETRY.  QQf 

Fair  Poesy,  deep  blushing, 

Gave  music  back  the  toy, 
While  through  her  heart  was  rushing 

A  pure  unwonted  joy — 
*'Nay,  lovely  sister  !  hear  me, 

'With  me  do  thou  abide, 
•■Forever  one  and  near  me, 

*My  throne  thou  shalt  divide. 

*^When  from  their  breathing  slumbers 

*Thou  pour'st  sweet  strains  along, 
*^I'll  catch  the  airy  numbers, 

'And  weave  them  into  song. 
*I'll  cull  fair  flov/ers,  and  warm  them 

'With  spirit  from  above, 
•And  thou  shalt  all  inform  them 

'With  melody  and  love.' 

Thus  formed,  this  fond  alliance 

Was  never  after  broke  ; 
Since  then,  in  sweet  compliance^ 

The  two  as  one  have  spoke  ; 
And  thence  the  lyric  measures- 

In  graceful  numbers  flow. 
Giving  new  zest  to  pleasure,. 

And  gently  soothing  wo.. 


THE   INFANT  SAMUEL 


BY    EPHRAIM    PEABODY. 


"  Then  Samuel  answered,  speak  Lord  j  for  thy  servant 
heareth." 

In  childhood's  spring, — ah  !  blessed  spring  ! 

As  flowers  closed  up  at  even 
Unfold  in  morning's  earliest  beam, 

The  heart  unfolds  to  heaven. 
Ah!  blessed  child,  that  trustingly 

Adores  and  love  and  fears. 
And  to  a  Father^s  voice  replies, 

'Speak  Lord,  thy  servant  hears.' 

When  youth  shall  come, — ah  !  blessed  youth  ! 

If  still  the  pure  heart  glows. 
And  in  the  world  and  word  of  God, 

Its  Maker's  language  knows  ;— 


THE     INFANT     SAMUEL.  99 

If  in  the  night  and  in  the  day, 

Midst  youthful  joys  or  fears, 
The  trusting  heart  can  answer  still 

*  Speak  Lord,  thy  servant  hears.' 

When  age  shall  come, — ah  !  blessed  age  ! 

If  in  its  lengthening  shade. 
When  life  grows  faint  and  earthly  lights 

Recede  and  sink  and  fade, — 
Ah,  blessed  age  !  if  then  heaven's  light 

Dawn  on  the  closing  eye, 
And  Faith  unto  the  call  of  God 

Can  answer, — '  Here  am  L' 


APOSTROPHE  TO  THE  OCEAN. 


y     CHARLES     H.     BROWN- 


Hale,  dark  old  ocean  !  wild  and  loud 

Thy  plangent  billows  roar, 
Tossed  by  the  tempest's  raging  might 

Far  on  the  surf-bound  shore. 
Hail !  thou,  whose  ceaseless  rage  began 

When  earth  from  chaos  sprung, 
And  through  the  heavens'  re-echoing  vaults 

Celestial  music  rung. 

Thou  art  the  same  mysterious  sea, 

As  when,  long  ages  past, 
The  silent  moon  first  on  thy  tide 

Its  golden  radiance  cast. 
The  eternal  hills,  the  rocks  and  caves 

Proclaim  thy  deeds  of  old, 
When  o'er  this  sin-devoted  world 

Thy  mighty  deluge  rolled. 


APOSTROPHE     TO    T  HE     OX!  I^  ^1^  i/   V'^^t 

Beneath  thy  dark  and  vengeful  flood, 

The  proudest  fleets  of  yore, 
With  all  their  hale  and  gallant  crews 

Sunk,  to  return  no  more. 
And  there  the  beautiful  and  brave 

Rest  in  thine  awful  deep, 
While  o'er  their  bleached  and  scattered  bones, 

Thy  sullen  surges  sweep. 

Roll  on,  old  ocean,  dark  and  deep ! 

For  thee  there  is  no  rest: — 
Those  giant  waves  shall  never  sleep, 

That  o'er  thy  billowy  breast, 
Tramp  like  the  march  of  conquerors, — 

Nor  cease  their  choral  hymn, 
Till  earth  with  fervent  heat  shall  melt, 

And  lamps  of  heaven  grow  dim. 


&^. 


AN  EXTRACT, 


IN  MEMORY  OF  LEONARD  F.  APTHORP,  A  FRIEND 
AND  CLASSMATE  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


BY  ISAAC  m'lELLAN,  J 


Soon  the  pale  Scholar  learneth  that  the  star 
That  lured  him  on,  but  leadeth  to  the  grave  ; 
And  that  the  images  of  sombre  stain 
Are  ever  with  life's  tissue  bright,  inwrought. 
And  such  a  one,  but  yesternight  I  saw 
Placed  where  Ambition's  dream  shall  vex  no  more. 
He  saw  the  sparkles  in  life's  golden  cup, 
And  fain  would  deeply  of  its  sweets  have  quaffed, 
JBut  never  lived  to  learn  the  poison  of  the  draught. 

Departed  friend  !  thy  brethren  all  have  passed 
Trom  that  still  spot  which  sepulchres  thy  dust, 
To  mingle  in  earth's  noisier  scenes,  to  walk 
iln  life's  tumultuous,  and  thronging  path. 


AN     EXTRACT.  103 

Yet  as  the  traveller  at  the  close  of  day 
Will  pause  to  view  the  darkening  landscape  round 
O'er  which  the  Day's  long  pilgrimage  had  been, 
So  we,  in  later  years  will  love  to  view 
In  memory's  dream,  those  scenes  we  walked  with  you. 

I  oft  have  sat  at  that  still  hour,  when  slow 
From  her  dim  hall,  the  purple  Twilight  stole, 
And  shut  the  shadowy  landscape  from  the  view, 
To  mark  the  picture  thy  warm  fancy  drew 
Of  coming  life, — its  triumph  and  its  joys. 
Alas,  fond  dreamer,  all  thy  colored  hopes 
Are  buried  now  beneath  the  Church-yard  Stone, 
The  crumbling  mould  is  now  thy  narrow  bed. 
And  the  rank  church-yard  weed  waves  mournful  o'er 
thy  head. 


REV.  ROBERT  WYMAN, 

GRADUATE     OF     THE     CLASS     OF     1838, 

Joined  the  Ceylon  Mission  in  1842. 
Died  on  his  homeward  passage  in  1845. 

Br     THE     EDITOR. 


Far — far  from  this  bright  land 

He  hasted  away, 
To  tell  in  the  night-land 

The  breaking  of  day ; 
To  herald  the  story 

Of  Calvary's  woe, 
The  triumph  of  glory, 

The  grave's  overthrow. 

Where  soft  gales  are  winging 

The  aroma's  breath, 
But  sin  is  yet  flinging 

The  "shadow  of  death"; 


REV.      ROBERT     W  Y  M  A  N  .  105 

Where  cool  waters  bursting 
From  '  neath  the  green  earth, 

Still  leave  the  soul  thirsting, 
To  pine  in  its  dearth ; 

There  toiled  he  to  lighten 

The  midnight  of  sin, 
Until  the  morn  brighten, 

And  let  the  day  in ; 
O'er  lands  dark  and  dreary, 

Christ's  banner  unfurled, — 
The  hope  of  the  weary. 

The  joy  of  the  world. 

But  mourn  ye  dark  dwellers 

On  Ceylon's  green  shore, 
'From  toil  with  his  fellows 

He  rests  evermore. 
Down  fathoms  unnumbered 

Beneath  the  deep  sea, 
Where  thousands  have  slumbered. 

There  slumbereth  he. 

Above  the  cold  billow 

No  marble  may  rise. 
Nor  cypress  nor  willow 

May  tell  where  he  lies  ; 


106  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Yet  hearts  have  enshrined  him, 
And  love  fondly  keeps 

An  eye  that  shall  find  him, 
Where-ever  he  sleeps. 

Beneath  the  commotion 

Of  storm-lifted  waves. 
In  India's  deep  ocean. 

Mid  still  coral  caves, 
His  rest  he  is  taking, 

Till  glory's  bright  morn 
Shall  bring  his  awaking, — 

Immortally  born. 

The  wild  waves  are  tramping, 

The  rude  tempest  blows. 
Yet  angels  encamping 

Guard  all  his  repose. 
Then  weep  not  to  leave  him, 

Since  Mercy  hath  said 
'  Your  faith  shall  receive  him 

Again  from  the  dead.' 


JACOB'S    FUNERAL 


BY    CHARLES   W.    UPHAM.* 


A  TRAIN  came  forth  from  Egypt's  land, 

Mournful  and  slow  their  tread  ; 
And  sad  the  leader  of  that  band — 

The  bearers  of  the  dead. 
His  father's  bones  they  bore  away, 

To  lay  them  in  the  grave 
Where  Abraham  and  Isaac  lay, 

Macpelah's  sacred  cave. 

A  stately  train,  dark  Egypt's  pride, 

Chariot  and  horse  are  there  ; 
And  silently,  in  sorrow  ride 

Old  men  of  hoary  hair. 
For  many  days  they  passed  along 

To  Atad's  threshing  floor. 
And  sang  their  last  and  saddest  song 

Upon  the  Jordan's  shore* 


108  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

And  Atad  saw  the  strangers  mourn, 

That  silent,  wo-clad  band, — 
And  wondered  much  whose  bones  were  bornei 

Thus  far  from  Pharaoh's  land. 
They  saw  the  chieftain's  grief  was  sore, 

He  wept  with  manly  grace  ; — 
They  called  that  spot  forevermore 

Misraim's  mourning  place. 

They  passed  the  wave  that  Jocob  passed, 

His  good  stafFin  his  hands,* — 
They  passed  the  wave  that  Jocob  passed 

With  his  returning  bands. 
'Twas  when  he  met  upon  his  path 

His  brother's  wild  array, 
And  fled,  for  fear  his  ancient  wrath 

Might  fall  on  him  that  day.. 


*  (Jen,  xxxii.  10. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH 


BY     HENRY     W.     LONGFELLOW 


Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 
The  village  smithy  stands ; 

The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 
With  large  and  sinewy  hands  ; 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat. 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

10 


110  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow  ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

Arid  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge. 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing  floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir. 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise  ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies  ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 


THE     VILLAGE     BLACKSMITH.  Ill 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing. 

Onward  through  life  he  goes  ; 
Each  morning  sees  some  ta«k  begiii, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 
Something  attempted,  something  done. 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend. 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 
Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 
Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 

Each  burning  iieed  and  thought } 


THE    DEAD 


E     F  .     TALBOT 


The  mighty  dead,  earth's  teeming  brood, 
Say,  whither  are  they  gone  ? 

I  move  amidst  life's  busy  crowd, 
And  feel  almost  alone. 

Thou  greedy  earth,  whose  fertile  rind 

With  human  gore  is  drunk, 
What  is  thy  solid  mould  but  men. 

That  'neath  thy  soil  have  sunk  ? 

Oh  !  cruel  mother,  yield  us  back 
Each  much  loved  form  and  face, 

To  the  mute  yearnings  of  our  love 
Give  back  our  ravished  race. 


THE     DEAD.  113 

Where  o'er  thine  orb  from  pole  to  pole, 

Did  man  ne'er  yield  his  breath  ? 
What  space  hast  thou  of  sea  or  shore 

Unhallowed  by  a  death  ? 

Thy  fields  yield  verdure  fair  as  erst 

Creation's  new  spring  bore  ; 
Thine  unchanged  mountains  sport  a  dress 

As  rich,  as  e'er  they  wore. 

Thy  zephyrs  yet  blow  coolly  by. 

Thy  woodland  streams  run  free  ; 
As  pure  an  azure  tints  thy  sky, 

As  deep  a  blue  thy  sea. 

And  yet  not  all  thy  aspects,  Earth, 

Of  changeless  joy  appear  ; 
Not  all  unknejled  the  dead  have  goa^, 

Not  all  unwept  their  bier. 

There's  moaning  for  them  in  the  rush 

Of  the  forest-shaking  gale  ; 
The  waves,  that  roll  o'er  mouldering  men, 

For  them  hoarse  requiem  wail. 


There's  sobbing  in  the  thunder-cloud 

And  tear  drops  fall  in  showers, 
10* 


114  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

And  widowed  nature  yearly  mourns, 
And  lays  aside  her  flowers. 

From  him,  who  felt  the  unknown  pang 

Of  death,  the  doomed  of  God  ; 
To  those,  whose  unchanged  forms  now  lie 

Scarce  cold  beneath  the  sod  ; 

How  oft  disease,  and  sword,  and  flood, 
Have  reaped  earth's  harvest  o'er, 

And  all  her  myriad,  myriad  race, 
To  their  dark  garner  bore. 

Hushed  is  the  Medes'  invading  tramp. 
Their  spears  consumed  with  rust. 

The  hosts  that  swelled  through  Babel's  gates, 
Have  mingled  with  their  dust. 

On  Afric's  stormy  strand  are  thrown 

The  Tyrians  and  their  gain, 
Nor  now  can  boast  the  fearful  ones. 

Who  templed  ne'er  the  main. 

Mourn  not  the  Greek  on  Marathon, 

Or  'neath  the  Attic  waves, 
The  nation,  rescued  by  their  death. 

Sunk  in  less  glorious  graves. 


THE     DEAD.  115 

Time,  Carthage,  has  avenged  thy  wrongs, — 

The  haughty  throng,  that  led 
Thy  captive  sons  through  Rome's  proud  streets, 

Are  numbered  virith  thy  dead. 

Jerusalem  weeps  not  her  slain, 

Nor  hates  her  conquering  foes. 
The  mountains  saved  not  them  who  fled. 

Nor  yet  their  victory  those. 

Ranks  fell  on  ranks  on  Waterloo, 

And  Borodino's  plain. 
And  Russia's  snows  have  crimson  grown 

With  blood  of  thousands  slain. 

The  peasant  by  his  cottage  fire, 

The  noble  in  his  hall, 
The  savage  in  his  wilderness, 

Before  the  slayer  fall. 

Oh  !  all  the  race  of  men  are  dead, 

And  earth  is  sad  and  drear  ! 
Like  flitting  shadows  of  the  past, 

A  few  still  linger  here. 


OH  THINK  NOT  THAT  THE 
DREAM  IS  PAST! 

BY     JOHN    B.     L.     SOULE. 


Oh  think  not  that  the  dream  is  past 

Of  scenes  when  fondest  hopes  were  cherished  ; 
Though  but  the  shadow  now  may  last 

Of  each  bright  hope  forever  perished. 

I  know  that  fortune  hath  decreed 
These  hearts  shall  never  be  united  ; 

I  know  that  mine  alone  must  bleed, 
That  mine  alone  was  truly  plighted. 

Although  the  straiu  which  now  I  pour 

In  plaintive  sadness,  ne'er  may  reach  thee  ; 

Although  this  tongue  shall  never  more 
Of  deathless  love  essay  to  teach  thee, — 


OH   THINK   NOT    THAT    THE    DREAM   IS    PAST.        117 

Yet  it  is  well — I  would  not  mar 

The  new-born  pleasures  that  surround  thee, 
Nor  on  my  lonely  harp  shall  jar 

One  note  of  memory  to  wound  thee ! 

But  deem  not  that  this  heart  is  cold, 
Though  this  should  be  its  latest  token, 

Of  love  which  words  have  never  told, 
Of  vows  which  never  can  be  broken. 

Where'er  my  feet  are  doomed  to  stray 
By  hopes  allured,  or  sorrows  driven, 

I'll  turn  from  other  scenes  away 

To  love  thee,  faithless,  but  forgiven  ! 


SONNET. 


TO    A.   BURGUNDY     ROSE,    PRESENTED    THE  AUTHOR   BY 
A    LADY. 


BY   HENRY    J.ttARDKER. 


Fairest  of  flowers,  by  fairest  lady  given  ! 
Thine  only  fault  that  thou  wilt  quickly  fade, — 
Though  early  plucked,  yet  blessed  to  be  riven 
From  thine  own  stem,  and  on  her  bosom  laid, 
Like  as  a  pearl  in  gold,  a  star  in  heaven  ! 
Oh  !  I  would  dream  were  I  not  half  afraid, — 
That  she  in  some  thought-wildered  happy  hour, 
Erst-while  ere  thou  wert  given  me,  fair  flower, 
A  kiss  perchance  may  have  impressed  on  thee. 
And  I  would  dream  that  some  mysterious  power 
Had  kept  the  blessing  in  those  leaves,  for  me  ! 
So  would  I  ply  thee  with  a  venturous  lip, 
The  nectar  of  that  hidden  thing  to  sip, — 
And  dream  the  while  of  rose-lipped  loveliness  and 
thee! 


WHAT   WOULD   YE    ASK? 


BY     GEOROE     W.     LAMB. 


What  would  ye  ask — a  restless  strife  of  soul 
For  wealth,  or  fame,  or  aught  beneath  the  sun  ? 

Alas  I  man's  life  is  short  to  have  such  goal, 
And  what  is  human  glory  when  'tis  won  I 

The  grave  receiveth  all.     The  hero's  crown 

And  poet's  laurels  crumble  into  dust  ; 
Soon  are  their  names  forgot,  though  long  renowil 

And  deathless  honor  was  their  fondest  trust. 

The  eye  grows  dim  and  youthful  fire  burns  low, 
The  strong  limbs  bend,  the  once  warm  heart  grow^ 
cold  ; 

Yet  onward  still  this  toiling  world  doth  go. 
As  if  man  ne'er  should  lay  beneath  the  mould* 


120  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Bend  to  your  task,  ye  who  amid  the  clash 

And  clang  of  life's  hard  strugglings  win  your  way, 

Strive  on  unceasing  though  the  bitter  lash 

Of  hopes  all  blighted  smite  your  hearts  each  day. 

Press  on  untiring  'mid  the  jostling  crowd, 

Heed  not  the  weak  ones  crushed  beneath  your 
tread. 

Think  not  upon  the  coming  pall  and  shroud 

And  narrow  grave — your  home  when  life  has  fled. 

And  this  ye  say  is  happiness,  and  tell 

Of  ends  attained  and  high  ambition  crowned  ! 

Ye  cannot  hear  how  oft  is  rung  a  knell 
Where  doth  one  shout  of  victory  resound. 

Ye  reak  not  of  the  withering,  wasting  heart. 
The  life-long  toil  unblessed  by  fortune's  smile, 

The  sickening  grief  that  bids  the  life  depart, 
And  the  dark  woe  no  soothing  can  beguile. 

Triumphant  notes  are  ringing  in  your  ears. 
Ye  list  not  when  is  struck  a  mournful  strain. 

Though  round  ye  blight,  decay,  and  hurrying  years, 
And  mouldering  dust,  tell  how  'tis  all  in  vain. 


WHAT     WOULD     YE     ASK?  121 

Live  out  your  little  span,  on  honor's  scroll 

Your  names  and  glorious  deeds  emblazon  high ; 

All  aims  accomplish,  reach  the  utmost  goal 

For  which  ye  strove — then  lay  ye  down  and  die  ! 

'Tis  the  sure  end.     When  in  the  funeral  urn 
Thy  head,  once  proudly  lifted,  lieth  low  ; 

Long  generations,  thronging  in  their  turn, 
Will  trample  on  thine  ashes  as  they  go. 

The  grave  receiveth  all.  Within  its  breast 
The  peasant  lies — the  prince  is  at  his  side — 

Long  are  their  slumbers,  silent  is  their  rest, 
And  equal  now  is  poverty  and  pride. 

It  matters  not  what  they  may  leave  behind ; 

One  lays  aside  his  staff  and  one  his  crown  ; 
To  his  last  resting  place  of  clay  consigned. 

Each  in  his  nothingness  has  laid  him  down. 

So  go  we  on,  still  struggling  to  the  tomb  ; 

Each  bubble  breaking,  yet  we  grasp  again  ; 
Each  hoped  for  pleasure  bringing  deeper  gloom. 

And  every  joy  with  sorrow  in  its  train. 
11 


SEA-¥EED 


BY    HENRY     VT  .     LOKQFELLOW 


When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 
Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  sea-weed  from  the  rocks 

From  Bermuda's  reefs  ;  from  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges. 
In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore ; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San- Salvador  ; 


S  E  A-W  E  E  D .  123 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides  ; 
And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas ; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main  ; 
Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 

Of  sandy  beaches. 
All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  ere  long 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth; 
From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth ; 


124  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavour 

That  forever 
Wrestles  with  the  tides  of  Fate  ; 
From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far- scattered, 

Tempest  shattered, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate  ;— 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  heart; 
Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 


"I  WOULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAY." 


BY     WILLIAM     CUTTER 


'  It  is  true  there  are  shadows  as  well  as  lights,  clouds  as  well 
as  sunshine,  thorns  as  well  as  roses;  but  it  is  a  happy 
world  after  all.' 

*  I  WOULD  not  live  alway!' — yet  'tis  not  that  here 

There's  nothing  to  live  for,  and  nothing  to  love  ; 
The  cup  of  life's  blessings,  though  mingled  with  tears, 

Is  crowned  with  rich  tokens  of  good  from  above  : 
And  dark  though  the  storms  of  adversity  rise, 

Though  changes  dishearten,  and  dangers  appall, 
Each  hath  its  high  purpose,  both  gracious  and  wise, 

And  a  father's  kind  providence  rules  over  all. 

» I  would  not  live  alway  !'  and  yet  oh,  to  die  ! 

With  a  shuddering  thrill  how  it  palsies  the  heart ! 
We  may  love,  we  may  pant  for,  the  glory  on  high. 

Yet  tremble  and  grieve  from  earth's  kindred  to  part. 
11* 


126  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

There  are  ties  of  deep  tenderness  drawing  us  down, 
Which  warm  round  the  heart-strings  their  tendrils 
will  weave  ; 

And  Faith,  reaching  forth  for  her  heavenly  crown, 
Still  lingers,  embracing  the  friends  she  must  leave. 

'  I  would  not  live  alway  !'  because  I  am  sure 

There's  a  better,  a  holier  rest  in  the  sky ; 
And  the  hope  that  looks  forth  to  that  heavenly  shore, 

Overcomes  timid  nature's  reluctance  to  die. 
O  visions  of  glory,  of  bliss,  and  of  love, 

Where  sin  cannot  enter,  nor  passion  enslave, 
Ye  have  power  o'er  the  heart,  to  subdue  or  remove 

The  sharpness  of  death,  and  the  gloom  of  the  grave  ! 

'  I  would  not  live  alway  !'  yet  'tis  not  that  time, 
Its  loves,  hopes  and  friendships,  cares,  duties,  and 

joys, 

Yield  nothing  exalted,  nor  pure,  nor  sublime. 
The  heart  to  delight,  or  the  soul  to  employ ; 

No  !  an  angel  might  oftentimes  sinlessly  dwell 

'Mid  the  innocent  scenes  to  life's  pilgrimage  given ; 

And  though  passion  and  folly  can  make  earth  a  hell, 
To  the  pure  'tis  the  emblem  and  gate-way  of  heaven. 


*I     WOULD     NOT     LIVE     ALWAY.*         127 

*  I  would  not  live  alway  !'  and  yet,  while  I  stay 

In  this  Eden  of  time,  'mid  these  gardens  of  earth, 
I'd  enjoy  the  sweet  flowers  and  fruits  as  I  may. 

And  gain  with  their  treasures  whate'er  they  are 
worth  : 
I  would  live  as  if  life  were  a  part  of  my  heaven, 

I  would  love,  as  if  love  were  a  part  of  its  hliss, 
And  I'd  take  the  sweet  comforts,  so  lavishly  given, 

As  foretastes  of  that  world,  in  portions,  in  this. 

*  I  v/ould  not  live  alway  !'  yet  willingly  wait. 

Be  it  longer  or  shorter,  life's  journey  to  roam. 
Ever  ready  and  girded,  with  spirits  elate, 

To  obey  the  first  call  that  shall  summon  me  home. 
O  yes  !  it  is  better,  far  better,  to  go 

Where  pain,  sin,  and  sorrow  can  never  intrude ; 
And  yet  I  would  cheerfully  tarry  below. 

And  expecting  the  better,  rejoice  in  the  good. 


THE  LAST  REQUEST 


Y     BENJAMIN     B.     THATCHER 


Bury  me  by  the  ocean's  side — 
Oh !  give  me  a  grave  on  the  verge  of  the  deep, 

Where  the  nohle  tide 
When  the  sea-gales  blow,  my  marble  may  sweep — 

And  the  glistering  surf 

Shall  burst  o'er  the  turf, 
And  bathe  my  cold  bosom  in  death  as  I  sleep ! 

Bury  me  by  the  sea — 
That  the  vesper  at  eve-fall  may  ring  o'er  my  grave, 

Like  the  hymn  of  the  bee. 
Or  the  hum  of  the  shell,  in  the  silent  wave ! 

Or  an  anthem  roar 

Shall  be  rolled  on  the  shore 
By  the  storm,  like  a  mighty  march  of  the  brave  ! 


THE     LAST     -REQUEST.  129 

Bury  me  by  the  deep — 
Where  a  living  footstep  never  may  tread ; 

And  come  not  to  weep — 
Oh  !  wake  not  with  sorrow  the  dream  of  the  dead, 

But  leave  me  the  dirge 

Of  the  breaking  surge, 
And  the  silent  tears  of  the  sea  on  my  head ! 

And  grave  no  Parian  praise ; 
Gather  no  bloom  for  the  heartless  tomb, — 

And  burn  no  holy  blaze 
To  flatter  the  awe  of  its  solemn  gloom ! 

For  the  holier  light 

Of  the  star-eyed  night, 
And  the  violet  morning,  my  rest  will  illume  : — 

And  honors  more  dear 
Than  of  sorrow  and  love,  shall  be  strown  on  my  clay 

By  the  young  green  year. 
With  its  fragrant  dews  and  crimson  array. — 

Oh  !  leave  me  to  sleep 

On  the  verge  of  the  deep, 
Till  the  skies  and  the  seas  shall  have  passed  away ! 


HE  DOETHALL  THINGS  WELL 


0& 


MY  SISTER. 


T    EDWARD     M.     FIELD 


I  remember  how  I  loved  her, 

When  a  little  guiltless  child, 
I  saw  her  in  the  cradle 

As  she  looked  on  me  and  smiled. 
My  cup  of  happiness  was  full — 

My  joy  words  cannot  tell ; 
And  I  blessed  the  glorious  giver, 

"  Who  doeth  all  things  well.  " 


HE     DOETH     ALL     THINGS    WELL.  131 

Months  passed — that  bud  of  promise 

Was  unfolding  every  hour ; 
I  thought  that  earth  had  never  smiled 

Upon  a  fairer  flower. 
So  beautiful  it  well  might  grace 

The  bowers  where  angels  dwell, 
And  waft  its  fragrance  to  His  throne 

"  Who  doeth  all  things  well.  " 

Years  fled — that  little  sister  then 

Was  dear  as  life  to  me, 
And  woke,  in  my  unconscious  heart, 

A  wild  idolatry : 
I  worshipped  at  an  earthly  shrine, 

Lured  by  some  magic  spell, 
Forgetful  of  the  praise  of  Him 

"  Who  doeth  all  things  well." 

She  was  the  lovely  star,  whose  light 

Around  my  pathway  shone, 
Amid  this  darksome  vale  of  tears. 

Through  which  I  journey  on. 
Its  radiance  had  obscured  the  light. 

Which  round  His  throne  doth  dwell, 
And  I  wandered  far  away  from  Him 

"  Who  doeth  all  thinofs  well." 


132  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

That  star  went  down  in  beauty — 

Yet  it  shineth  sweetly  now, 
In  the  bright  and  dazzling  coronet, 

That  decks  the  Savior's  brow. 
She  bowed  to  the  Destroyer, 

Whose  shafts  none  may  repel. 
But  we  know,  for  God  hath  told  us, 

"  He  doeth  all  things  well." 

I  remember  well  my  sorrow, 

As  I  stood  beside  her  bed, 
And  my  deep  and  heartfelt  anguish, 

When  they  told  me  she  was  dead  ; 
And  oh  !  that  cup  of  bitterness — 

Let  not  my  heart  rebel, 
God  gave — He  took — He  will  restore- 

"  He  doeth  all  things  well." 


THE  LITTLE  GRAVES 


Y     SEBA     SMITH 


'TwAs  autumn,  and  the  leaves  were  dry, 
And  rustled  on  the  ground, 
And  chilly  winds  went  whistling  by 
With  low  and  pensive  sound. 

As  through  the  grave  yard's  lone  retreat, 
By  meditation  led, 

I  walked  with  slow  and  cautious  feet 
Above  the  sleeping  dead. 

Three  little  graves,  ranged  side  by  side, 
My  close  attention  drew ; 
O'er  two  the  tall  grass  bending  sighed, 
And  one  seemed  fresh  and  new. 
12 


134  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

As  lingering  there  I  mused  awhile 
On  death's  long,  dreamless  sleep, 
And  morning  life's  deceitful  smile, 
A  mourner  came  to  weep. 

Her  form  was  bowed,  but  not  with  years, 
Her  words  were  faint  and  few, 
And  on  those  little  graves  her  tears 
Distilled  like  evening  dew. 

A  prattling  boy,  some  four  years  old, 
Her  trembling  hand  embraced. 
And  from  my  heart  the  tale  he  told 
Will  never  be  effaced. 

'  Mamma,  now  you  must  love  me  more, 

'  For  little  sister's  dead ; 

•  And  t'other  sister  died  before, 

'  And  brother  too,  you  said. 

'  Mamma,  what  made  sweet  sister  die  ? 
'  She  loved  me  when  we  played  : 
'  You  told  me,  if  I  would  not  cry, 
'  You'd  show  me  where  she's  laid.* 


THE     LITTLE     GRAVES.  135 

<  'Tis  here,  my  child,  that  sister  lies, 

*  Deep  buried  in  the  ground ; 

*  No  light  comes  to  her  little  eyes, 

*  And  she  can  hear  no  sound.' 

*  Mamma,  why  can't  we  take  her  up, 

*  And  put  her  in  my  bed  ? 

*  I'll  feed  her  from  my  little  cup, 

*  And  then  she  wont  be  dead. 

*  For  sister  '11  be  afraid  to  lie 

*  In  this  dark  grave  to-night, 

*  And  she'll  be  very  cold,  and  cry, 

*  Because  there  is  no  lis:ht.' 


*  No,  sister  is  not  cold,  my  child, 

*  For  God,  who  saw  her  die, 

*  As  He  looked  down  from  Heaven  and  smiled, 

*  Called  her  above  the  sky. 

*  And  then  her  spirit  quickly  fled 

*  To  God  by  whom  'twas  given  ; 

*  Her  body  in  the  ground  is  dead, 

*  But  sister  lives  in  Heaven.' 


136  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

*  Mamma,  wont  she  be  hungry  there, 

*  And  want  some  bread  to  eat  ? 

*  And  who  will  give  her  clothes  to  wear, 
'  And  keep  them  clean  and  neat  ? 

« 

*  Papa  must  go  and  carry  some, 

*  I'll  send  her  all  I've  got ; 

*  And  he  must  bring  sweet  sister  home, 
'  Mamma,  now  must  he  not  ? ' 

'  No,  my  dear  child,  that  cannot  be ; 

*  But  if  you're  good  and  true, 

» You'll  one  day  go  to  her,  but  she 
'  Can  never  come  to  you. 

'  Let  little  children  come  to  we, 

*  Once  the  good  Savior  said ; 

'  And  in  his  arms  she'll  always  be, 
'  And  God  will  give  her  bread.' 


FAIRY  LAND 


Y     WILLIAM    B.    WALTER.* 


Sometimes  we  wander  to  the  Fairy  Land, 
Where  the  soul  dances  and  her  wings  expand : — 
Fair  Land ! — its  turf  all  brightened  o'er  with  flowers, 
And  dewy  shrubbery,  and  moonlight  bowers, 
Retreat  of  glittering  Fancy's  vagrant  powers. 
Fair  Heaven  ! — where  many  colored  clouds  enfold, 
Bright  islets  floating  in  the  sea  of  gold  ! 
Proud  domes  and  palaces  are  shining  there, 
With  ivory  columns,  gemmed  with  fire-stained  spar  ! 
There  wanton  Zephyrs  dance  on  budding  flowers. 
And  waft  the  fragrant  leaves  in  snowy  showers  ; — 
By  sunny  banks,  the  silver  waters  whirl 
A  wildering  music  o'er  their  sands  of  pearl ; 
And  birds  are  singing  from  their  star-lit  bowers, 
To  lull  the  sleeping  of  the  blue  eyed  Hours  ! — 
Light  things  are  flitting  in  this  world  of  air ; 
Gay  creatures  born  of  thought,  are  dwelling  there  ; 
The  Elfin  race,  who  bathe  in  dews  of  morn  ; 
12* 


138  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

And  climb  the  rainbow  of  the  summer  storm, — 

Floating  about,  in  thinnest  robes  of  light. 

From  meteors  caught,  that  shoot  along  the  night. 

Crowns,  studded  o'er  with  gems,  their  brows  adorn, 

Stole  from  the  eyelids  of  the  waking  morn  ! 

They  wave   bright  sceptres   wrought  of    moonlight 

beams. 
And  spears  of  crystal,  tinged  with  lightning  gleams ! 
Young  naked  loves  are  sporting  on  the  main. 
Or  glide  on  clouds  along  the  etherial  plain ! 
Their  snowy  breasts  floating  the  waves  among, 
Are  kissed  by  shapes  of  light,  and  swim  along 
In  liquid  sapphire — with  their  humid  locks 
Dropping  thick  diamonds  o'er  the  mossy  rocks  ! — 
The  sea  green  realm,  is  all  with  emeralds  shining, 
With  rainbow  arches  o'er  the  depths  reclining  I — 
And  other  skies  are  deeply  rolling  under. 
With  clouds  of  trembling  flame  and   slumbering 

thunder ! 
And  minstrels  blow  their  horns  of  tulip  flowers  ! 
In  echoes  softly,  from  their  air-borne  towers, 
Floats  back  the  music,  with  a  dreamy  sound, — 
A  dove-winged  presence,  hovering  around  ! 
Visions  of  Joy,  in  sun-robed  garments  sporting — 
Dear  Loves,  with  gay  looks  in  green  pathways 

courtins: ! 


OGILVIE 


Y     WILLIAM     B.     WALTER 


"  Thou  lookest  from  thy  towers  to-day ;  yet  a  few  seasons 
and  the  blast  of  the  desert  comes  ;  it  howls  in  thy  empty  court 
and  whistles  round  thy  half- worn  shield." 

There  is  a  wail  of  sorrow  spread 

Far  o'er  the  waters  deep  ! — 
Scotland !  we  know  thy  son  is  dead, 

And  we  with  thee  would  weep. 
Oh  !  there  are  dreams  we  look  upon — ' 

A  presence  loved,  is  past ! 
It  speaks  of  memories  that  are  gone, 

All  lovely  to  the  last ! 

And  art  thou  gone,  bright  spirit, 

To  thine  eternal  place  ? 
Shalt  thou  no  more  inherit 

The  splendors  of  thy  race  ? 
Dost  thou  no  longer  smile  at  fate. 

Wandering  on  earth  alone  ? — 
And  is  the  temple  desolate, 

The  shrine  and  spirit  gone  ? — 


140  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Thine  was  a  name  to  cherish, 

Thou  gifted  one  and  proud  ! 
Not  doomed  from  earth  to  perish 

With  the  poor  common  crowd  ! 
Bright  Honor  and  fair  Courtesy, 

Last,  of  a  noble  line ! 
The  glow  of  ancient  Chivalry, 

Great  heart !  were  ever  thine. 

Thy  life,  a  splendid  vision. 

That  now  has  passed  away  ! — 
Majestic,  bright,  elysian, 

The  glory  of  a  day  ! — 
Oh  !  brighter  than  the  coronet. 

Thy  virtues'  living  rays  ! — 
They  beam  upon  our  memories  yet. 

Son  of  the  winged  days  ! 

To  realms  of  silence  banished, 

Hurled  from  his  burning  throne, 
The  imperial  bird  is  vanished, 

And  rent  his  radiant  zone  !■— 
Still  are  the  lips,  ail  eloquent. 

That  charmed  our  raptured  ears — 
The  thunder  of  the  firmament ! 

The  music  of  the  spheres  ! 


O GIL  VIE.  141 

The  wild  birds  now  are  nesting, 

On  his  lone  turrets  high  ! — 
And  there  the  stork  is  resting 

From  her  long  flight,  in  the  sky ! 
Faded  the  ravished  bowers, 

Where  he  was  wont  to  roam ; 
In  ruins  heaped  the  towers, 

That  once  he  called  his  home. 

All  sadly  lone  and  desolate  ! 

No  banner's  pomp  is  seen  ! 
Where  monarchs  sat  enthroned  in  state, 

Dark  Ruin's  scythe  has  been ! 
But  Friendship  and  Affection, 

Shall  long  their  vigils  keep, 
With  wakening  recollection 

To  mourn  his  dreamless  sleep  ! 


'Tis  past !  we  gather  flowers, 

Sweet  flowers  of  earliest  bloom- 
Bright  emblems  of  departed  hours, 
To  hang  around  his  tomb  ! 


A  DIRGE, 


SUNG   IN   MEMORY   OF     LANE,    o'bRIEN,    AND    SMITH,    OF 
THE    CLASS    OF    1838.    . 

BY     ROBERT    WYMAN.* 


Comrades,  we  meet  to  mourn  the  dead  \ 

We  meet — ^but  ah !  not  all ; 
Our  tears  of  grief  may  not  be  shed 

Upon  the  funeral  pall. 

Far,  far  away  from  this  dear  haunt, 
Our  friends  and  classmates  sleep  ; 

Yet  here  may  we  their  requiem  chaunt, 
And  o'er  their  memory  weep. 

Well  hath  the  classic  poet  sung,  t 
That  Death  with  equal  stride 

Knocks  at  the  gate  of  old  and  young — 
Of  poverty  and  pride. 


t  Horace  Lib.  1.  Car.  4.    Palida  Mors,  etc. 


A     DIRGE.  143 

Though  dust  to  dust  may  be  consigned — 

Friend  after  friend  depart  ; 
Their  cherished  names  shall  be  enshrined 

In  many  a  living  heart. 

But  while  our  hearts  with  anguish  bleed, 

We  bow  beneath  the  rod ; 
Oh !  may  we  all  this  v/arning  heed, 

*  Prepare  to  meet  thy  God  ! ' 

And  we — when  down  death's  dreary  coast 

Our  shattered  barks  are  driven  ; 
By  sea  and  storm  no  longer  tossed — 

May  we  repose  in  heaven. 


ST.  JOHN  IN  EXILE 


BY     ANDREW     DUNNING. 


Death  was  decreed,  or  banishment,  to  all  of  christian 

faith. 
And  he  stood  before  the  Roman  power,  for  exile,  or 

for  death. 
The  weakness  of  declining  years  was  all  forgotten 

now; 
He  stood  erect  with  fearless  eye,  and  an  unquailing 

brow. 
Though  storms  might  break  in  darkness  round,  there 

was  an  arm  to  save. 
Through  faith  he  trode  the  lifting  seas,  for  Christ  was 

on  the  wave. 
Amid  the  war  of  elements,  he  saw  the  rainbow 

dyes 
Arching  in  bows  of  promise  sure,  across  the  frowning 

skies. 


ST.     JOHN     IN     EXILE.  145 

The  clouds  hung  heavy  o'er  his  head,  but  sunlight  in 

his  soul 
Darted  athwart  the  fearful  gloom,  and  richly  tinged 

the  whole. 

He  gazed  upon  the  soldier  guard,  with  spear  and 
waving  crest ; 

And  the  thronging  mass  of  bloody  men  that  round 
him  thickly  prest ; 

Calm  and  undaunted  was  his  gaze,  and  through  the 
troubled  air, 

Went  up  from  his  confiding  heart,   the   spirit-whis- 
pered prayer. 

His  heart  was  fixed, — his  faith  was  firm,  for  he  leaned 
upon  the  breast 

Of  his  beloved  Savior  still,  and  felt  the  promised  rest. 

The  stern  decree  of  banishment  to  Patmos'  lonely 
shore. 

Was  circled  with  celestial  light,  and  tints  of  glory 
bore. 

'Twas  joy  to  leave  a  treacherous  world,  'twas  happi- 
ness to  meet 

Far  from  the  faithlessness  of  man,  a  solitude  so 
sweet ; 

'Twas  joy  to  share  the  angry  scorn  by  persecutors 

poured, 

13 


146  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Upon  that  consecrated  band,  the  followers  of  the 
Lord. 

He  would  not  shield  his  aged  frame  from  vengeance 
or  from  death, 

By  coward  act  of  perfidy — denial  of  the  faith. 

Deny  the  faith  !  nay !  it  was  bound  unto  the  spirit'iS 
life  ; 

The  gnarled  oak  is  not  more  firm,  amid  the  whirl- 
wind strife. 

Death  was  the  portal  to  the  skies,  but  treachery 
would  be 

Parting  the  anchorage  of  hope  for  all  eternity ! 

0,  tyrant  of  a  trembling  world !  how  weak  thy  puny 

arm; 
The  body^s  life  is  in  thy  power,  the  souVs  thou  canst 

not  harm ! 
-Thy  manacles  may  cramp  these  limbs,  thou  may'st 

destroy  this  clay  ; 
There  thy  authority  must  end, — the  spirit  spurns  thy 

sway  ! 
When  thou  canst  curb  the  lightning's  track,  or  hush 

the  winds  to  peace ; 
Fetter  the  free-winged  elements,  bid  ocean's  roar  to 

cease  ; 


ST.     JOHN     IN     EXILE.  147 

Arrest  the  sun  in  mid-day  course,  the  wheels  of 

nature  bind ; 
Then  may'st  thou  fling  thy  chains  around  the  ua- 

conquerable  mind. 


Oh,  false  the  thought  that  gloomy  fears  on  the  chris- 
tian's rest  intrude, 

When  shut  from  a  corrupting  world,  in  quiet  solitude. 

Congenial  spirits  from  above,  stoop  downward  to  his 
prayer. 

And  come  on  wings  of  holy  love,  to  sojourn  with  him 


And  he  who  left  the  city's  throng,  to  seek  his  island 

home, 
Left  but  a  wilderness  behind,  through  paradise  to 

roam. 
He  stepped  upon  the  rocky  strand,  and  bade  the 

world  farewell ; 
Angels,  and  heaven,  and  God,  came  down  with  him 

on  earth  to  dwell. 
Nature  in  all  her  varied  charms  to  him  was  given  yet, 
The  marvels  and  the  pomps  of  heaven,  with  earth's 

in  concord  met- 


148  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep,  *  Greece,  living  Greece' 
appeared, 

And  there  the  *  clustering  Cyclades'  round,  their  forms 
of  beauty  reared  : — 

Vibrations  of  a  thousand  strings,  in  music  met  his 
ear; 

The  glorious  canopy  of  stars,  the  sky  serenely  clear : 

The  winds  and  waters  whispered  peace  upon  the 
lonely  shore, 

And  white-winged  spirits  of  repose  brooded  its  still- 
ness o'er. 


But  views  of  loftier,  holier  things,  to  him  were 

granted  there. 
The  New- Jerusalem  appeared,  in  dazzling  splendor 

crowned ; 
Bright  jasper  walls,  with  gates  of  pearl,  encircled  it 

around. 
The  future  glories  of  the  Church  in  vision  were 

revealed ; 
And  mingling  songs  of  earth  and  heaven,  in  swelling 

peans  pealed. 
The  reign  of  error,  long  usurped,  was  prostrate  o'er 

the  world ; 


ST.     JOHN     IN     EXILE.  149 

And  the  banners  of  redeeming  love,  triumphantly 
unfurled. 

This  was  the  exile's  solitude — celestial  visions  given  ; 
Communion  w^ith  the  world  denied,  communion  held 
with  heaven ! 


13* 


THE  FIRST-BORN 


TO     MR.     AND     MRS.     G 


Y     THE     EDITOR 


Sweet  blossom  opening  to  the  light  of  life, 
How  beautifully  fair,  and  yet  how  frail ! 
How  rich  the  promise  of  this  blessed  hour. 
And  yet  how  tremblingly  faith  waits  on  hope  ! 
— I  would  not  dash  the  tear  of  brimming  joy 
From  that  young  mother's  eye,  bent  eagerly 
On  the  new  treasure  folded  to  her  heart. 
Nor  check  thy  pride,  fond  father.     Given  you 
Pledge  of  indissoluble  ties,  first-born, — 
O  cherish  it  with  undissembled  joy 
Fast  by  affection's  shrine,  and  rest  your  hopes, 
Yet  not  too  strongly,  on  it ; — for  the  plant 


THE     FIRST-BORN.  151 

May  blight  untimely,  ye  would  nourish  up 
To  fair  proportions  and  a  queenly  grace ; 
Or,  grown  to  the  full  majesty  of  years, 
May  feel  too  harshly  the  rude  play  of  storms, 
That  sweep  the  earth,  with  the  wild  whirlwind's 
wrath  ! 

That  smile,  glad  mother,  borrowed  from  thine  own, 

Just  taught  to  play  around  its  tiny  lip, 

Waking  that  joy- thrill  to  thy  'bosom's  depths,'— 

Oh  !  it  may  grow,  with  the  quick  lapse  of  years, 

To  a  most  perfect  witchery,  and  lure 

Some  dark,  destroying  angel  to  his  wiles ! 

That  eye,  whose  light  is  caught  from  the  pure  heavens 

It  scarce  has  looked  upon,  too  soon  may  gleam 

With  an  unearthly  wildness,  and  that  heart, 

Pressed  to  thine  own  with  ever  answering  pulse, 

And  beating  lightly  in  its  innocence, 

May  feel  the  rush  of  passions  scathing  it ; 

Or,  pressed  too  long  to  this  chill  world's  hard  heart, 

That  beats  not  to  its  beating,  giving  back 

But  cold  responses  to  its  yearning  hopes, — 

Grow  passionless  and  still,  as  for  the  grave. 

Those  lips,  that  drink  a  mother's  fondest  kiss, 

But  know  not  yet  to  fashion  the  return, — 

Those  lips  a  parent's  pride  would  teach  to  say 


152  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

*  My  father i^  and  the  household  words  we  love, — 

May  learn  the  world's  poor,  hollow  mockeries, 

Or  breathe  the  poison  of  a  treacherous  heart. 

That  ear,  unwonted  yet  to  listen  aught 

Save  the  pleased  mother's  gentlest  lullaby, 

Or  father's  proud  '  my  daughter'' — may  soon  feel 

The  grating  discords  of  the  world's  harsh  voice, 

Calling  to  sorrow  and  to  early  tears. 

— The  unquiet  foot  so  often  thou  dost  press, 

With  a  rapt  mother's  fondness,  to  thy  lips. 

That  have  just  known  the  joy, — oh !  shall  it  tread 

The  scorner^s  path  ? 

Shall  that  fair,  first-born  babe 
Grow  wayward  in  its  early  years  ; — forget 
The  eye  that  watched  it  ever  tenderly — 
That  smiled  upon  it  with  the  morning  light 
And  at  the  evening  dews,  and  waked  for  it 
In  the  still  watches  of  the  slumbering  night, — 
The  hand  that  rocked  it  to  its  cradle  rest. 
Stayed  its  first  tottering  on  the  nursery  floor, 
Parted  the  curls  upon  its  childhood  brow, 
And  smoothed  the  ruffles  of  its  infant  care, — 
The  voice  that  hushed  its  broken  slumberings, 
That  taught  it  in  its  lisping  infancy, 
'  Our  father,'  and  the  pleasant  evening  hymn, — 
That  calmed  the  tumujt  of  its  troubled  breast, 


THE     FIRST-BORN.  153 

With  the  kind  soothings  of  a  tone,  like  that 
Which  stilled  the  waves  on  wild  Gennesaret, — 
And  ever  was  around  its  joyous  hours 
In  gentle  melodies  of  breathing  love  ? 
Forget  such  tenderness  ? 

Oh  !  mother,  pray. 
And  thou  dost  pray.     The  bosom  that  has  heaved 
To  the  slight  pressure  of  thy  first-born's  cheek, 
Has  felt  the  yearnings  of  a  mother's  love 
That  would  not  be  forbidden,  and  thy  prayer, 
Borne  by  the  spirits  ministering  around 
Thy  waking  and  the  infant's  rest,  has  gone 
To  the  recording  angel.     And  the  God 
Who  keepeth  covenant,  remembereth 
That  gentle  falling  of  baptismal  dews, 
And  stoopeth  now  with  broad  o'er-shadowing 
Of  the  celestial  wings,  to  shelter  it. 

Mother,  have  faith.     So  the  fair  flower  that  springs 

To  its  unfolding  beauty,  'neath  thine  eye. 

Shall  grow,  with  the  soft  sunlight  of  thy  smiles, 

To  scatter  perfume  round  thee — and  shall  pass, 

After  life's  Autumn,  to  the  '  living  green' 

Of  the  '  Sweet  Fields,'  and  the  unfading  Spring. 


VESPERS. 

BY     FRANCIS     BARBOU 


The  hour  of  prayer! 
Within  the  crowded  chancel,  while  the  shroud 
Of  night  comes  down  upon  the  poor  and  proud, 

Low  bended  there. 

Perchance  there  be 
Some  lowly  worshippers  at  eventide, 
Breathing  their  humble  prayer,  on  some  hill-side 

By  the  deep  sea : 

Or  in  the  drear 
And  rayless  coverts  of  the  pathless  woods, 
With  scarce  a  stream  to  glad  their  solitudes, 

Or  light  to  cheer. 


VESPERS.  155 

And  suppliant  now, 
At  altars  beaten  by  tempest's  shock, 
At  some  rude  cross  upon  the  rifted  rock, 

They  humbly  bow. 

A  chastening  power 
Falls  like  the  coming  of  an  angel's  spell. 
O'er  the  calmed  spirit,  when  the  shadows  tell 

The  evening  hour. 

Thus  at  the  close 
Of  life's  short  day,  may  its  receding  light 
Which  led  us  on,  be  peaceful,  calm  and  bright. 

As  when  it  rose. 

And  may  no  fear 
Upon  our  hearts  a  trembling  record  trace, 
And  may  we  go  to  our  long  resting  place 

Without  a  tear. 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  SEA, 


BY     ELIJAH    KELLOaa,     JR. 


Ah !  tell  me  not  of  your  shady  dells 

Where  the  lilies  gleam  and  the  fountain  wells, 

Where  the  reaper  rests  when  his  task  is  o'er, 

And  the  lake-wave  sohs  on  the  verdant  shore, 

And  the  rustic  maid  with  a  heart  all  free. 

Hies  to  the  well-known  trysting-tr6e ; 

For  I'm  the  God  of  the  rolling  sea. 

And  the  charms  of  earth  are  nought  to  me. 

O'er  the  thundering  chime  of  the  breaking  surge 

On  the  lightning's  wing  my  course  I  urge, 

On  thrones  of  foam  right  joyous  ride 

'Mid  the  sullen  dash  of  the  angry  tide. 

I  hear  ye  tell  of  music's  power, 
The  rapture  of  a  sigh. 

When  beauty  in  her  wizard  power 
Unveils  her  languid  eye. — 
Ye  never  knew  the  infernal  fire, 


THE     DEMON     OF     THE     SEA.  157 

The  withering  curse,  the  scorching  ire, 
That  rages,  maddens  in  the  breast 
Of  him  who  rules  the  billow's  crest. 
Heard  ye  that  last  despairing  yell 
That  wailed  Creation's  funeral  knell, 
When  young  and  old,  the  vile,  the  brave, 
Were  circled  in  one  common  grave  ? 
While  on  my  car  of  driving  foam 

By  moaning  whirlwinds  sped. 
O'er  what  ivas  joyous  earth  I  roam 

And  trample  on  the  dead. 
This  is  the  music  that  my  ear 
Thrills  with  stern  exstacy  to  hear ! 
I  love  to  view  some  lonely  bark. 
The  sport  of  storms,  the  lightning's  mark, 
Scarce  struggling  through  the  freshening  wave 
That  foams  and  yawns  to  be  her  grave ! 
I  saw  a  son  and  father  fight 

For  a  drifting  spar  their  lives  to  save  ; 
The  son  he  throttled  his  father  gray. 
And  tore  the  spar  from  his  clutch  away 

Till  he  sank  beneath  the  wave ; 
And  deemed  it  were  a  noble  sight. 
I  saw  upon  a  shattered  wreck 
All  swinging  at  the  tempest's  beck, 
A  mother  lone,  whose  frienzied  eye 
Wandered  in  hopeless  agony, 
14 


158  BOWDOIN     FOETS, 

O'er  that  vast  plain  where  nought  was  seen 

The  ocean  and  the  sky  between, 

And  there  all  buried  to  the  breast 

In  the  hungry  surf  that  round  her  prest — 

With  feeble  arms,  in  anguish  wild, 

High  o'er  her  head  she  raised  her  child, 

Endured  of  winds  and  waves  the  strife, 

To  add  a  unit  to  its  life. 

Poor  wretch,  she  deemed  it  might  not  be 

That  the  cruel  shark  his  meal  should  make 
Of  the  babe  she'd  nursed  so  tenderly, 

By  her  own  sweet  native  lake. 
I  whelmed  that  infant  in  the  sea 
To  add  a  pang  to  her  misery, 
And  the  wretched  mother's  frantic  yell 
Came  o'er  me  like  a  soothing  spell ! 

Are  ye  so  haughty  in  your  pride. 

To  deem  of  all  the  earth  beside, 

That  yours  are  fields  and  fragrant  bowers, 

And  gold  and  gems  of  priceless  worth, 

And  all  the  glory  of  the  earth  ? 

Ah,  mean  is  all  your  pageantry 

To  that  proud,  fadeless  blazonry. 

That  waves  in  scathless  beauty  free, 

Beneath  the  blue,  old  rolling  sea ! 

For  there  are  flowers  that  wither  not, 

And  leaves  that  never  fall, — 


THE     DEMON     OF     THE     SEA.  159 

Immortal  forms  in  each  wild  grot, 

Still  bright  and  changeless  all 
Decay  is  not  on  beauty's  bloom, 

Nor  canker  in  the  rose. 
No  prescience  of  a  future  doom 

To  mar  the  sweet  repose. 
There  Proteus'  changeful  form  is  seen, 

And  Triton  winds  his  shell, 
While  through  old  Ocean's  valleys  green, 

The  tuneful  echoes  swelL 
But  though  a  Demon  rightly  named, 
For  terror  more  than  mercy  famed, — 
Yet  Demons  e'en  respect  the  power 
That  nerves  the  heart  in  danger's  hour. 
And  when  the  veteran  of  a  hundred  storms, 

Whom,  many  a  wild  midnight, 
I've  girded  with  a  thousand  startling  forms 

Of  terror  and  affright, — 
When  tempests  roar,  and  hell-fiends  scream, 
The  thunders  crash,  the  lightnings  gleam, 
'Mid  biting  cold  and  driving  hail 
Still  grasps  the  helm,  still  trims  the  sail^ 
Nor  deigns  to  utter  coward  cries, 
But  as  he  lived,  so  fearless  dies, — 
Mingles  his  last  faint,  bubbling  sigh 
With  the  pealing  tempest's  banner-cry  ; — 


160  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Then  winds  are  hushed,  the  billow  falls, 

Where  storms  are  wont  to  be. 
As  I  bear  him  to  the  untrodden  halls 

Of  the  deep  unfathomed  sea ! 
Now  Triton  sends  a  mournful  strain 

Through  all  that  vast  profound, — 
At  once  a  bright  immortal  train 

Come  thronging  at  the  sound. 
And  on  a  shining,  pearly  car 

They  place  the  honored  dust, 
And  ocean's  chargers  gently  bear 

Along  the  sacred  trust. 
While  far  o'er  all  the  glassy  plain 

By  mighty  Neptune  led. 
In  sadness  move  that  funeral  train, — 

Thus  Ocean  wails  her  dead  ! 
And  now  the  watch  of  Life  is  past. 
The  shattered  hulk  is  moored  at  last, 
Nor  e'en  the  tempest's  thrilling  breath 
Can  wake  the  '  dull,  cold  ear  of  Death.' 
No  bitter  thoughts  of  home  and  loved  ones  dart 
Their  untold  anguish  through  the  seaman's  heart. 

Peaceful  be  thy  slumbers,  brother, 

There's  no  prouder  grave  for  thee. 
Well  may  pine  for  thee  a  mother. 
Flower  of  ocean's  chivalry  ! 


SPIRIT  VOICES 


BY    GEORGE     W.    LAM 


In  the  silent  greenwood  glade, 
In  the  dim  old  forest's  shade, 

By  the  rushing  river, — 
There  are  sweet  low  voices  singing, 
Music  on  the  soft  breeze  flinging, 

And  they  haunt  me  ever. 

In  the  star-crowned,  quiet  night, 
Ringing  from  the  moonlit  height. 

Whispering  from  the  vale, 
From  the  swinging,  leafy  bough, 
And  the  dewy  flowers  below, 

Murmuring  still  their  tale. 
14* 


162  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

'Tis  of  days  long  passed  away, 
'Tis  of  forms  now  cold  in  clay 

These  sweet  voices  tell. 
At  the  memories  they  bring, 
Tears  and  smiles,  together,  spring 

From  the  heart's  deep  swell. 

Old  friends  again  about  me  stand, 
And  once  more  the  clasping  hand 

And  the  kindling  eye, 
Better  far  than  words  can  do —  , 
Tell  that  hearts  are  warm  and  true 

As  in  days  gone  by. 

And,  as  these  sweet  visions  throng, 
Joyous  laughs  with  many  a  song 

On  the  charmed  air  swell, 
And  strike  upon  the  dreaming  brain 
Till  the  old  time  seems  back  again — 

The  old  time  loved  so  well. 

Ever  thus  in  greenwood  glade 
And  in  the  deep  forest  shade 

And  by  the  rushing  river. 
There  are  sweet,  low  voices  singing, 
Music  to  the  soft  breeze  flinging, 

And  they  haunt  me  ever. 


TO  MY  MOTHER, 


ON     A     BIRTH-I)AY. 


BY     THE     EDITOR. 


They  tell  me  I  am  free, 

As  though  the  thought  were  glad ; 
But  oh  !  it  burdens  me, 

And  mother,  I  am  sad. 
I  feel  that  I  am  wearing 

Too  early,  manhood's  years — 
That  time  is  onward  bearing 

To  conflict  and  to  tears. 

I  sighed  in  childhood's  hours, 

To  rank  among  the  free  ; 
But  where,  oh  !  where,  ye  powers, 

The  freedom  promised  me  ? 
For  oh  !  the  tie  bound  lightly 

In  youthful  days  I  v/ore. 
And  sunshine  beamed,  how  brightly  ! 

As  it  will  beam  no  more. 


164  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Free — from  my  guileless  plays 

Beneath  that  hoar  old  tree  ; 
Light  of  my  early  days, 

Dear  mother,  and  from  thee. 
Free  from  thy  guardian  care ; 

On  childhood's  bended  knee 
To  lisp  no  more  thy  prayer ; — 

And  THIS  is  to  be  free  ! 

Nay  !  'tis  a  chain  I  wear, 

That  binds  me  from  my  home- 

Whose  links  are  toil  and  care, 
X  That  chafe  me  as  I  roam. 

The  stern  decree  is  past, 
They  say  I  am  *  my  own  ;' 

My  lot  is  earth-ward  cast — 
I  tread  the  world  alone. 

No  !  not  alone — a  crowd 

Of  mad  ones  past  me  sweep, — 
Ambition  trumpeth  loud 

To  Fame's  unhallowed  steep  : 
They  bid  me  onward  press, 

Till  thought  itself  grows  wild. 
My  brain  a  wilderness — 

My  heart  with  earth  defiled  ! 


TO     MY     MOTHER.  165 

I  hear  the  thunderous  boom, 

I  scent  the  battle's  air ; 
My  leaping  blood  cries  '  room — 

i'm  ivith  the  thickest  there  l\ 
'  Stay' — saith  a  voice  within, 

*  Be  not  thy  heart  too  strong  ; 
*  Court  not  life's  battle  din, 

*  'Twill  summon  thee  ere  long. 


'  Seek  higher  mastery 

'  Than  winning  thee  a  name — 

*  The  tinsel  mockery 

*  Of  an  unlasting  fame  ! 

*  Look  where  the  foe  would  crush 

*  Thy  nobler  purposings, 

'  The  passions'  maddening  rush — 

*  The  strife  of  earthly  things.' 

Oh  !  gird  us  for  that  fight. 

With  earth-embattled  powers. 
Thou  of  Eternal  Might— 

In  the  fast-coming  hours  ! 
When  inward  foes  o'erwhelm, 

Be  Kighteousness  our  mail, 
Salvation's  liope  our  helm. 

When  fiery  darts  assail ; 


166  BOWDOIN     POETS, 

Be  Faith  our  battle-shield, — 

Be  ours  the  Spirit's  sword, 
And  God-giv'n  strength  to  wield 

That  weapon  of  his  Word. 
Thus  panoplied,  we  yield 

Not  in  the  tumult  strife, 
Triumphant  on  the  field 

Of  this  stern,  mortal  life. 


Star,  that  in  heaven  burns, 

The  changeless  and  the  true,- 
The  trembling  needle  turns, 

And  points  at  length  to  you. 
Star  in  my  heaven  set, 

Earth's  '  lesser  lights  '  above. 
My  wandering  heart  is  yet 

Firm  to  thy  ray  of  love  ! 

Jan.  19,  1840. 


LOVE'S  BLIND 


Y     CHARLES      H.     PORTER 


"  Love's  Blind,"  they  say, — an  olden  rule — 
But  he  who  made  it  was  a  fool, 
And  they  who  trust  him  are  not  wise  ; 
Love  rather  hath  a  thousand  eyes. 

"  Love's  blind,"  they  say  : — who  think  they  find 
Truth  here,  but  prove  themselves  are  blind  : 
If  so,  how  could  his  arrows  fly 
With  such  unerring  certainty  ? 

I  thought  so,  till  from  Stella's  eye 
The  villain  let  an  arrow  fly  ; 
It  came  so  straight  I  could  not  flee — 
And  proved  full  well  that  love  can  see. 

Then  all  beware  : — ihat  love's  a  rogue  ; 
He'll  either  come  to  you  incog.. 
Or  else  he'll  say  to  you,  "  I'm  blind," 
And  thus  an  easy  entrance  find. 


VENETIAN   MOONLIGHT 


BY    FREDERIC     MELLEN. 


The  midnight  chime  had  tolled  from  Marco's  towers, 
O'er  Adria's  wave  the  trembling  echo  swept, 

The  gondolieri  paused  upon  their  oars, 

Muttering  their  prayers  as  through  the  still  night 
crept. 

Far  o'er  the  wave  the  knell  of  time  was  borne, 
Till  the  sound  died  upon  its  tranquil  breast ; 

The  sea-boy  started  as  the  peal  rolled  on. 
Gazed  at  his  star  and  turned  himself  to  rest. 

The  throbbing  heart  that  late  had  said  farewell, 
Still  lingering  on  the  wave  that  bore  it  home, 

At  that  bright  hour  sighed  o'er  the  dying  swell, 
And  thought  on  years  of  absence  yet  to  come. 


VENETIAN     MOONLIGHT.  169 

'T  was  moonlight  on  Venetia's  sea, 
And  every  fragrant  bower  and  tree 

Smiled  in  the  glorious  light : 
The  thousand  isles  that  clustered  there 
Ne'er  in  their  life  looked  half  so  fair 

As  on  that  happy  night. 

A  thousand  sparkling  lights  were  set 
On  every  dome  and  minaret ; 

While  through  the  marble  halls 
The  gush  of  cooling  fountains  came, 
And  crystal  lamps  sent  far  their  flame 

Upon  the  high-arched  walls. 

But  sweeter  far  on  Adria's  sea. 
The  gondolier's  wild  minstrelsy 

In  accents  low  began  ; 
While  sounding  harp  and  martial  zell, 
Their  music  joined,  till  the  rich  swell 

Seemed  heaven's  wide  arch  to  span. 

Then  faintly  ceasing — one  by  one, 
That  plaintive  voice  breathed  on  alone, 

Its  wild,  heart-soothing  lay  : 
And  then  again  that  moon-light  band, 
Started,  as  if  by  magic  wand. 

In  one  bold  burst  away. 
15 


170  BOWDOIN     POETS, 

The  joyous  laugh  came  on  the  breeze,. 
And,  *mid  the  bright,  o'er-hanging  trees,- 

The  mazy  dance  went  round  ; 
And,  as  in  joyous  ring  they  fleWy 
The  smiling  nymphs  the  wild  flowers  threw, 

That  clustered  on  the  ground. 

Soft  as  a  summer  evening's  sigh, 
From  each  o'er-hanging  balcony. 

Low,  fervent  whisperings  fell  : 
And  many  a  heart  upon  that  night 
On  fancy's  pinion  sped  its  flight, 

Where  holier  beings  dwell. 

Each  lovely  form  the  eye  might  see. 
The  dark-browed  maid  of  Italy, 

With  love's  own  sparkling  eyes: 
The  fairy  Swiss--all — all  that  night 
Smiled  in  the  moon-beam's  silvery  light, 

Fair  as  their  native  skies. 

The  moon  went  down,  and  o'er  that  glowing  sea, 
With  darkness,  Silence  spread  abroad  her  wing. 
Nor  dash  of  oars,  nor  harp's  wild  minstrelsy, 
Came  o'er  the  waters  in  that  mighty  ring. 
All  nature  slept — and,  save  the  far-off"  moan 
Of  ocean  suro-es,  Silence  reig-ned  alone. 


LINES 


ON     THE      DEATH     OF     B.    B.    THATCHER 


Y     ISAAC     M'LELLAN,     JK. 


Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave.    Longfellow. 


Hark  !  the  funeral  bell  is  tolling — 

Calling  to  the  grave's  retreat ; 
And  the  funeral  car  is  rolling 

Through  the  city''s  crowded  street- 
Soon  the  marble  cell  will  hold  thee 

In  its  dumb  and  solemn  rest — 
Soon  the  grassy  turf  will  fold  thee 

Closely  to  its  heaving  breast  ! 

On  thy  pallid  brow  a  shadow 
From  the  wing  of  Death  is  cast ; 


172  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

From  ihy  sparkling  eye,  the  brightness 

That  illumined  it  hath  past. 
May  the  green  grass,  o'er  thee  sighing, 

Whisper  forth  its  tenderest  air ; 
May  the  sweet  birds,  o'er  thee  flying, 

Pour  their  mellowest  sorrows  there. 
Let  Nature  view  with  tearful  lashes 
The  spot  that  holds  her  poet's  ashes. 

Quenched  is  now  thy  studious  taper,  , 

And  thy  chair  holds  thee  no  more. 
For  the  scholar's  vigil's  ended — 

His  task  is  done,  his  toil  is  o'er. 
The  spider  on  thy  shelf  is  weaving 

His  untouched  net  from  book  to  book, 
And  low  the  poet's  harp  is  resting — 

Neglected  in  his  favorite  nook. 

The  thoughtless  world  may  soon  forget  thee, 

But,  in  many  a  heart  thy  name 
Shall  keep  its  sweet  and  precious  perfume. 

In  bloom  and  freshness  still  the  same. 
O'er  Time's  wide  sands  the  rolling  billow 

May  dim  the  print  of  thy  career, 
Yet  love  and  memory  still  will  cherish 

For  thee  the  sacred  sigh  and  tear. 


LINES.  173 

Classmate,  gentle  Classmate  !  fast 

The  dizzy  wheel  of  time  flies  round  I 
Scarce  a  moment  doth  it  seem 

Since  thy  hlushing  hrow  was  bound 
With  the  cloistered  college  crown, 
Meekly  worn,  but  nobly  won. 
As  our  little  band  departed. 

Pilgrims  from  our  classic  home, 
Joyous  each,  and  happy-hearted, 

Through  life's  untried  scenes  to  roam, 
Little  recked  v/e  of  its  sorrow, 
Joy  to-day  and  grief  to-morrow  ! 
But  alas,  the  thorny  way 

Hath  entangled  many  feet, 
And  how  many  are  reposing 

Where  the  churchyard  tenants  meet  ! 
But  no  purer  name  than  thine 
Fills  the  tablet's  mournful  line. 

Ashes  to  ashes — dust  to  dust  ! 

'Tis  written  that  the  glowing  cheek 
In  its  youthful  bloom  must  fade 

As  fades  the  rainbow's  painted  streak. 
The  silver  head,  the  locks  of  gold. 

The  reverend  sage,  the  humble  child, 
Must  vanish,  with  the  crumbling  mould 

In  rolling  hillocks  o'er  thera  piled  I 
15* 


174  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

.   Gentle  Pilgrim — fare  thee  well ! 

In  thy  dewy  morn  of  day, 
Yielding  scrip  and  staff  and  shell, 

Thou  hast  fainted  by  the  way  ! 
All  who  fill  this  vast  procession, 

Travelling  down  the  vale  of  tears, 
Will  be  shortly  sleeping  with  thee. 

Vexed  no  more  with  toils  and  fears. 


ISLE  OF  THE  PAST." 


POND     PAHKER. 


Joy-laden  Land  !  what  verdant  memories  twine 

Their  tender  tendrils  round  the  soul's  warm  shrine 

Back  to  our  hearts  what  long-lost  pleasures  come 

Like  weary  wanderers  to  their  childhood's  home, 

As  o'er  the  distance  of  Life's  hazy  sea 

Our  swift-winged  thoughts  fly  fondly  unto  thee  ! 

How  warmly  flows  the  unprevented  tear — 

When  some  sweet  melody  we  loved  to  hear 

In  happier  days,  forgotten  long,  again 

Sighs  through  the  silent  chambers  of  the  brain  ! 

Deceitful  Land  !  the  beauty  of  thy  smile 

Charms  but  to  cheat,  and  tempts  but  to  beguile. 

The  angel  forms  that  gather  on  thy  shore — 

Those  white-robed  harpers  harping  evermore— 

Are  soulless  shadows  of  a  deathless  band, 

Whose  songs  are  echoes  from  the  "  spirit-land.** 

The  light  that  robes  thee  in  such  rich  array, 

Is  but  the  morning  twilight  of  the  day 
15## 


176  BO  WDOIN     POETS. 

Of  endless  rest,  which  sends  its  rays,  unseen 

By  us,  while  Death's  dark  shadows  stretch  between, 

Far  o'er  the  Present,  thickly  overcast 

With  sorrow-clouds,  to  gild  the  silent  Past. 

How  should  we  view  the  Past  ?     Must  we  impress 

On  it  the  seal  of  blank  forgetful  ness ; 

And  close  the  doors  of  that  great  arch  of  years 

Through  which,  unfolded.  Retrospection  peers, 

Haply  among  our  ruined  plans  to  find 

Some  corner-stone,  on  which  the  timid  mind 

May  rest  neiu  hopes  that  proudly  shall  withstand 

The  stalwart  blows  of  Time's  destructive  hand  ? 

As  at  the  close  of  some  sweet  Sabbath  day 

Peacefully  sad  we  often  steal  away. 

Perchance  to  weep  among  the  grassy  mounds 

Of  "  treasures  sunken"  in  the  churchyard's  bounds, 

How  does  the  sunshine  of  fond  Hope  dispel 

Our  clouds  of  grief — our  plaints  of  sorrow  quell. 

And  nerve  our  souls  with  active  zeal  and  power, 

If  in  the  silence  of  that  sacred  hour 

We  see  those  loved  ones  in  their  spirit  home, 

And  hear  their  voices  calling  us  to  come  ! 

Thus,  in  the  graveyard  of  the  Past,  the  soul 

May  sometimes  take  its  Sabbath  evening  stroll. 

And  sorrowing  o'er  its  prospects  shivered  there, 

Seek  nobler  treasures  with  more  earnest  care. 


THE  RAIN. 


Y     JAMES     OLCOTT     BROWN 


I. 

Dusty  lies  the  village  turnpike,  and  the  upland  fields  are  dry, 
While  the  river,  inly  sighing,  creeps  in  stealthy  marches  by ; 
And  the  clouds,  like  spectral  Druids,  in  their  garments  old 

and  gray, 
Sweeping  through  the  saddened  silence,  fold  their  sainted 

palms  and  pray. 
As  their  tears  of  tender  pity,  soft  and  chrismal,  trance  the 

plain, 
All  the  birds,  like  sweet-mouthed  minstrels,  blend  their 

tuneful  notes  again. 

With  the  tinkling  and  the  sprinkling 
Of  the  gentle  summer  rain. 

II. 

Tangled  in  the  dreamy  meshes  of  tte  soft  and  slumberous 


How  the  rain-drops  thrill  the  spirit  in  the  mild  September 
days; 


178 


B  O  W  D  0  I N      POETS 


Pouring  on  the  golden-tinted  autumn  splendor  of  the  leaves, 
Kustling  through  the  yellow  grain-fields  and  the  reapers' 

standing  sheaves — 
How  they  swell  the  silver  streamlets,  how  tliey  brim  the 

land  with  glee ! 
So  our  lives  shall  brim  with  pleasure,  pulsing  like  a  living 
sea, 

At  the  clattering  and  the  pattering 
Of  the  joyous  autumn  rain. 

iir. 

Sadly  as  when  harp-strings  (.{uiver,  wildly  as  a  wail  of  doom, 
Unappeased  the  night  wind  surges  through  the  elemental 

gloom. 
All  the  inner  light  is  winsome,  though  the  outer  dark  be  chill. 
And  my  passing  thoughts  are  fancies  of  a  balm-entranced 

will— 
I  will  charm  the  fleet-winged  hours,  they  shall  fold  their 

pinions  fair, 
While  I  sit  and  dreamful  listen,  reading  legends  old  and 

rare, 

To  the  roaring  and  the  pouring 
Of  the  noisy  winter  rain. 


ODE, 


SUNG  AT  THE  PARTING  MEETING  OF  TUE  CLASS  OF    '53. 


Y     J  .     B  .     S  O  U  T  II  G  A  T 


Useless,  while  they  sleep  in  union, 
Are  the  germs  the  seed-cells  hold ; 

Not  till  each  is  lone  and  scattered, 
Do  its  charms  and  worth  unfold. 

Small  avail  the  gathered  water, 
Kesting  stagnant  on  its  sand ; 

It  must  break  in  streams,  projecting 
Veins  of  life  throughout  the  land. 

See  how  all  the  worlds  are  scattered. 
Sparsely  dotting  boundless  space ; 

How  in  constant,  strange  division. 
They  their  ordered  courses  trace  ! 


ISO  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

So,  my  brothers,  in  our  union, 
Balked  designs  and  lives  we  see  ; 

Works,  however  one,  are  severed  ; 
Severed  must  the  workers  be. 

Yet  in  manhood  conquer  sorrow, 
Self  postpone  to  noble  deeds  ; 

Part  we  must,  our  ends  to  answer. 
Going  where  the  Planner  leads. 


ODE, 


SUNG  AT  THE  PARTING  MEETING  OF  THE  CLASS  OF    '56. 


y      EDWIN     POND     PARKER 


As  the  gentle  summer  evening 
Marshalling  her  sable  train, 

Leads  the  shadows  from  the  valleys 
Clouding  high-peaked  hill  and  plain  ; 

So  the  night  now  o'er  us  closing 
Breaks  the  barriers  of  our  fears ; 

Shrouding  in  the  Past  our  pleasures, 
Ushering  in  long,  toilful  years. 

Like  a  golden  gleam  of  sunshine 

Smiling  on  an  angry  sea. 
Fades  this  hour's  soft  twilight  gladness 

On  the  future  mystery. 


1  82  B  0  W  D  0  I  N     r  0  E  T  s . 

Soon  the  morning,  coldly  dawning, 

Of  a  stern  and  serious  life 
Will  our  dreaming,  fancy-teeming 

Souls  awake  to  earnest  strife. 

We  have  passed  through  fields  of  richness, 
Gathering  balm-buds  by  the  way, 

Homeward  still  we  all  are  pressing. 
And  yet  whither — who  can  say  ? 

Gladly  sad  and  sadly  joyful 

On  Life's  hither  shore  we  stand, 

Waiting  for  some  wind  to  waft  us 
Onward  to  an  unknown  land. 

Waking  on  our  trembling  heart-strings 
Echoes  to  their  mournful  song, 

Thought-troops  sighing — "  fled  and  flying," 
Memory's  haunted  chambers  throng. 

Brothers  !  may  a  glad  fruition 
Of  choice  hopes,  repay  us  well 

For  our  labor  here,  hereafter 
Where  no  parting  is — Farewell ! 


NOTES. 


Page  8.     From  old  Bun  go-nun  go-nock, 

To  where  merry  Quobomock,  (f-c. 

One  of  these  names,  now  generally  syncopated  into  Bun- 
gonock  was  applied  by  the  Indians  to  an  indentation  of  the 
Casco,  about  three  miles  from  the  College  buildmgs.  Quo- 
bomock  was  a  name  given  the  Androscoggin  where  it  unites 
with  the  Kennebec,  and  forms  the  Merry-Meeting  Bay — four 
miles  from  the  Colleges  in  another  direction.  They  are  both 
upon  borders  of  the  ancient  Pejepscot,  also  the  Indian  name 
of  a  territory  including  Brunswick. 

Page  8,     And  the  wave-emhosomed  islands 
Of  the  sea. 

Casco  Bay,  whose  North  Eastern  shore  is  formed  by 
Brunswick  and  Harpswell,  is  remarkable  for  the  iineness  of 
its  coast  and  island  scenery.  As  seen  in  travelling  upon  the 
lower  route  from  Portland  to  Brunswick,  it  affords  prospects 
of  surpassing  beauty.  A  traveller  of  no  small  reputation, 
has  remarked,  that  the  scenery  of  this  Bay  resembles  that 
of  the  Mediterranean  more  nearly  than  any  thing  of  the  kind 
he  had  seen  in  this  country.  There  are  scattered  through  it 
more  than  three  hundred  and  sixty  islands  of  great  diversity 
in  extent  and  scenery — offering  a  variety  of  beautiful  resorts 
for  sailing  parties  and  pic-nics. 


176  NOTES. 

Page  8.     Through  the  pines'  cathedral  arches. 

In  the  rear  of  the  College  buildings  is  a  native  growth  of 
stately  pines,  ever  green — and  to  the  imaginative,  ever  whis- 
pering 

Come  "  mingle  with  the  roar 

Of  the  pine-forest,  dark  and  hoar !" 

Page  47.    William  B,  Walter. 

We  find  several  poems  of  Mr.  Walter,  published  soon  after 
his  graduation. — The  pieces  contained  in  this  book  are  from 
a  volume  published  in  1821  and  dedicated  to  the  Rev.  John 
Pierpont. — Particulars  of  his  history  we  have  not  learned. 

Page  66.     Charles  W.  Upuam. 

Charles  Wood  Upham,  son  of  Timothy  Upham,  Esq.  of 
Portsmouth,  N.  H., — was  born  Sept.  9,  1814,  and  received 
his  name,  in  part,  in  memory  of  a  gallant  friend  of  his  father 
— Lieut.  Col.  Wood  of  the  Engineers — who  was  killed  near 
General  Upham,  at  the  Sortie  from  West  Erie,  Sept.  17. — He 
died  in  December,  1834 — having  just  entered  on  his  twenty- 
first  year.  We  make  the  following  extract  from  an  obituary 
notice,  published  soon  after  his  decease. — "  There  was  much 
in  his  childhood  to  cherish  the  highest  hopes  with  regard  to 
him  in  the  minds  of  his  parents  and  friends.  He  showed  an 
ardent  love  for  knowledge,  and  while  he  mastered  with  sin- 
gular facility  the  elementary  studies  of  the  school,  he  made 
him.self  conversant  with  many  standard  works  in  English  lit- 
erature. He  at  this  period  manifested  a  great  fondness  for 
the  fine  arts,  particularly  for  painting  ;  and  for  several  years 
the  pencil  and  the  brush  were  the  almost  uniform  compan- 
ions of  his  leisure  hours.  His  juvenile  success  gives  ample 
proof  that  time  and  diligence  only  were  wanting  to  have 
made  him  an  eminent  artist  j  but  when  he  felt  himself  cal- 
led to  a  higher  and  holier  prolessioia,  from  a  sense  of  duty, 
yet  not  without  a  severe  struggle,  he  denied  himself  the  chos- 
en occupation  of  his  boyhood.  In  1829,  he  entered  the 
Freshman  Class  in  Bowdoin  College,  and  shortly  after  select- 


NOTES.  177 

ed  the  Christian  ministry  as  his  profession.  While  in  Col- 
lege, he  maintained  a  high  rank  in  his  class,  distinguished 
himself  particularly  as  a  writer,  and  gained  the  lasting  esteem 
and  affection  both  of  his  instructors  and  his  fellow-pupils. 
At  the  close  of  his  Sophomore  year,  he  left  College  to  become 
an  assistant  in  an  extensive  female  Seminary  in  Canandai- 
gua,  N.  Y.  He  had,  in  the  intervals  of  his  duty  in  school, 
pursued  the  studies  of  his  class,  and  was  expecting  to  rejoin 
them  at  Brunswick  early  in  their  Senior  year.  But  in  the 
autumn  of  1832,  by  the  upsetting  of  a  stage,  he  sustained  an 
injury  of  the  spine,  which,  though  not  perceived  at  the  time, 
shortly  after  occasioned  a  severe  illness,  and  rendered  the 
whole  residue  of  his  life  a  period  of  weakness  and  intense 
suffering. 

"  He  had  few  friends,  for  he  sought  few  ;  but  these  he 
bound  to  himself  by  unreserved  confidence  and  by  a  self- 
forgetting  sympathy. All  the  talents  and  virtues  of  this 

lamented  young  man  were  rendered  doubly  interesting,  as 
sanctified  by  Christian  piety.  And  as  one  by  one  the  lies 
that  bound  him  to  life  were  sundered,  he  seemed  to  cling 
with  a  still  firmer  faith  and  a  still  more  joyous  hope  to  the 
promise  of  the  life  to  come." 

It  is  due  to  the  subject  of  this  notice,  to  remark  in  regard 
to  his  poetical  effusions,  that  they  were  never  intended  for  the 
public  eye.  Several  articles  written  for  his  own  recreation 
or  the  gratification  of  friends — found  their  way  into  the  pub- 
lic prints  after  his  decease.  From  these  we  have  made  our 
selection — and  when  it  is  recollected  they  were  written  at  the 
early  age  of  about  eighteen  years — we  only  the  more  regret 
that  he  has  passed  the  '  returnless  bourne.' 

Page  75.     Peal  out  the  Pandeaii's  thrilling  strain. 
Pandean  is  the  name  of  the  College  Band. 

Page  76.    Frederic  Mellen. 

Frederic  Mellen,  son  of  Hon.  Prentiss  Mellen,  was  gradu- 
ated in  1525, — The  following  extracts  are  from  an  obituary, 


178  NOTES. 

written  at  the  time  of  his  death. — "  With  a  native  character 
of  great  suavity,  simphcity,  and  instinctive  correctness  of 
moral  sentiment,  an  intuitive  perception  of  poetic  beauty, 
and  peculiar  quickness  of  apprehension  and  susceptibility  to 
the  influences  under  which  he  was  reared  from  infancy,  and 
imbibing  at  home  the  purest  principles  of  virtue,  he  seasona- 
bly received  the  advantages  of  an  education  at  Bowdoin  Col- 
lege, which  nourished  a  love  of  classic  and  polished  litera- 
ture, and  enabled  him  to  cultivate  those  powers,  with  which 
he  was  gifted,  with  an  upward  aim  to  excel  in  whatever  be- 
longed to  mental  or  professional  accomplishment.  A  pervad- 
ing taste  for  one  favorite  art,  early  discovered,  and  displaying 
a  peculiar  aptitude  for  the  finest  combinations  of  forms  and 
colors — the  art  of  painting — obtained  the  mastery  of  his  pur- 
suits and  purposes  ;  and  he  bade  fair,  by  the  proofs  of  origi- 
nal effort,  to  arrive  at  distinction  in  the  most  elegant  branch- 
es of  this  polite  department.  He  also  possessed  a  very  de- 
lightful and  delicate  poetic  talent.  A  number  of  gems  have 
been  presented,  among  the  choicest  and  sweetest  which 
grace  the  Annuals,  which  would  form  a  pleasing  circlet  on 
the  now  pale  brow,  upon  which  the  blooming  wreath  of  youth- 
ful hope  has  untimely  perished.  He  had  a  short  time  previ- 
ous to  his  death,  removed  to  a  sphere  more  propitious  to  the 
cultivation  of  his  favorite  pursuits,  and  the  interest  of  his 
friends  was  awakended  to  his  merited  success.  But  his  mon- 
ument is,  alas !  to  be  marked  by  the  broken  column  ;  and  the 
blighted  flower  of  his  manly  promise  is  watered,  but  cannot 
be  revived  by  the  tears  of  friendship  and  affection." 

Page  140.     Still  are  the  lips  all  eloquent, 

That  charmed  our  raptured  ears,  ^c. 

Ogilvie,  the  subject  of  this  poem  was  a  Scotch  nobleman, 
who  travelled  in  the  United  States,  some  twenty  or  thirty 
years  since,  distinguished  for  his  oratorical  powers. 


NOTES.  179 

Page  154.    Francis  Barbour. 

Francis  Barbour,  son  of  Joseph  Barbour,  Esq.,  of  Gorham, 
was  graduated  in  1830,  and  afterwards  pursued  the  study  of 
Law,  and  still  later  that  of  Medicine.  Not  satisfied  howev- 
er with  these  pursuits,  he  determined  to  devote  himself  to  the 
art  of  Painting,  for  which  he  had  an  early  taste.  He  visited 
Boston  and  New  York,  to  receive  instruction  in  his  favorite 
pursuit ;  but  unwilling  to  endure  the  drudgery  imposed  on 
the  beginner,  he  returned  to  Gorham  to  pursue  his  chosen 
art  by  himself.  And  although  he  lived  but  a  few  years  to 
prosecute  his  labors,  he  has  left  in  his  portraits  and  other 
paintings,  evidences  of  no  common  genius.  It  is  a  remark- 
able fact  that  three  of  the  deceased  "Poets,"  discovered  a 
more  than  ordinary  taste  for  Painting. 

Mr.  Barbour  is  remembered  by  his  college  friends  and 
other  acquaintances,  as  "  gentlemanly  in  his  deportment 
and  graceful  in  his  manners  ; — generous,  high-minded,  and 
honorable  in  his  intercourse  with  his  fellow  men ;  indepen- 
dent in  thought,  word,  and  action,"  and  at  the  same  time 
governed  by  "  that  kindness  and  good  sense  that  never  al- 
lowed his  independence  to  degenerate  into  obstinacy." 

He  passed  slowly  and  silently  into  the  grave.  His  disor- 
der, consumption,  did  not  wholly  interrupt  his  studies  until 
the  day  of  his  death.  On  the  preceding  day  he  was  engaged 
upon  a  portrait  which  he  left  unfinished. 

Mr.  Barbour  died  at  his  father's  residence,  March  1,  1S39 
— ^t.  28. 

Benjamin  B.  Thatcher. 

Benjamin  Bussey  Thatcher,  youngest  son  of  Hon. 
Samuel  Thatcher,  was  born  in  Warren,  Maine,  Oct.  8,  1809. 
He  was  graduated  in  1826 — before  he  was  seventeen  years  of 
age.— And  after  a  short  career  of  distinguished  success  in  the 
paths  of  Literature,  his  chosen  profession, — he  died  in  Bos- 
ton, July  M,  1840,  in  the  faith  of  the  Gospel. 


ISO  NOTES. 

Unable,  from  the  state  of  his  health,  to  prepare  anything 
particularly  for  this  book,  he  directed  us  to  several  articles 
from  which  to  make  a  selection.  "  Weep  not  for  the  Dead," 
and  "  The  Last  Request,"  will  be  read  with  peculiar  inter- 
est, now  that  their  author  is  no  more.  Of  equal  beauty,  and 
disclosing  in  a  similar  manner  his  yearnings  for  the  "  upper 
life,"  are  his  "  I  would  not  live  alway,"  and  "  Twilight  Mu- 
sings,"— the  latter  prepared  for  the  press  only  the  day  before 
his  death. 

While  the  surviving  mourn  that  he  so  early  perished 
from  among  living  men,  we  trust  the  departed  is  realizing 
the  consolatory  truth  of  his  own  lines  : 

"  Nor  fell  decay,  nor  cankering  sin,  (the  blight  upon  our  rose,) 
May  mar,  'mid  all  its  loveliness,  that  land's  divine  repose  ; 
But  God  will  wipe  these  weeping  eyes,  these  mysteries  dispel, 
And  Love  forget  forevermore,  the  sorrowing  Farewell !" 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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